Raul

His name was Raul, and he was once an illegal immigrant to the United States.  He came into California, worked picking crops, taught himself English.  He fell in love, married, had 2 daughters.  He moved from picking crops to chasing traffic accidents and recommending ambulance-chaser attorneys to the victims – an extra-legal profession, to borrow Joe Klein’s Orwellian Newspeak.  Eventually Raul got on the wrong side of a cop, and was deported.  His wife and daughters remain to this day in the US, and Raul has not seen them since he left.  He rebuilt his life, began to work at a textile factory in Honduras, but that shut down when the owners decided it was easier to move operations abroad then to pay their workers $240/month.  He’s been unable to find work since, unsurprising in a country that suffers 30% unemployment and whose economy is driven primarily by remittances from the 1,000,000 Hondurans living in the US, and after that by textile manufacturing, banana, and coffee production.  An export economy to the West suffers deeply when the US and Europe aren’t buying, and to complicate matters, ever since the military-led Coup this summer, tourism has been flat-on-its-face dead, leaving this writer to conclude that 2009 will go down as the year Honduras got brutally beaten, shaken down, and left for the vultures on the side of the road, a not-occasional-enough event in this part of the world.

Really – when there’s no money, no work, your children are starving, and there are a very small group of incredibly rich owners in your midst, what would you do?  If you answered “turn to crime” then you’re spot on – the poor in Honduras have been driven inch by agonizing inch into the sort of activities that would get one labeled a terrorist and possibly French back in the US of A.  Everything from massive surges in gang and drug-related violence, kidnapping, smuggling, roadblocks, hijacking, bus and taxi robbery, pickpocketing, underage prostitution, child and female slavery, damn near everything you’d want to limit if your goal was societal stability is rising, and rapidly too.  Not only in Honduras, mind you – every place in Central America is seeing the same problems, the same trends, as the global economy sags like a 70-something social butterfly who fell behind on her Botox shots.  As the bigshots protect their own asses and their friends’ Wall Street investment firms, the people further down the line take the hit all the harder, and this part of the world is pretty near the bottom of the totem pole.  No one has credit, liquidity, savings to fall back on – most don’t have an extra tortilla or cup of coffee to spare, let alone money.

The rich will survive this – even if they have to sell the extra Mercedes and the lake house, they will make it through, keep sending their kids to the right schools, showing up at the right events.  The middle class (in the US sense) will live as well, though not without having to cut out the Starbucks a few times a week, perhaps put off the new TV or those cute jeans for a bit.  It won’t be easy – many people will lose their mortgages, cars, declare bankruptcy, but you’ll eat at least.  The poor, the real poor, the billion people who live on less then $1 a day – that sixth of the world is, to put it politely, fucked. Just like the last time, just like the next time, the poor take it on the chin whenever the Capitalist system over-invests in tulip bulbs.

Ok, so what does this have to do with Raul?  It seems a good enough time to reintroduce our protagonist.  When I met Raul, I was in Choluteca, Honduras, hitchhiking north to friendly faces and a roof.  He was lying in the street near the market, facedown with an arm stretched dangerously close to the choking line of buses, trucks, taxis slogging through the narrow dirty streets.  In his hand, a small bottle of Catrachito, cheap gut-rot liquor, hinted at the cause.  I didn’t intend to meet him, I just wanted to move his arm out of the road, but as I did so he sat up with a start, scaring the hell out of me and coughing booze-scented pleghm on his dirty clothes.  I convinced him to move with me, and we sat in the shade of a nearby shop and shared a cigarette.

“Why,” I asked him after he told me his awful tale, “why are you doing this to yourself?  What about your family?”

He spat in the dirt. “My wife does not receive my calls.  She told me that she is sorry, but she needs a man who can support the children.”  He put his head in his hands, wracked by sorrow but still too proud to cry openly.

“Raul, why drink?  Surely there is something better, no?”  I asked so many variations of this, brought in God when I had to, but nothing penetrated his dark clouded eyes.  There was one phrase he kept repeating that hurts me still – I’ll try to translate it as best I can.

“I have worked like a slave my entire life.  All my life.  What good is there?”

He stared at me, and I could only shake my head – I don’t know.

I don’t know anything – I came down here looking for reality and truth, and I’ve found bucketloads, but none that penetrates quite like the poverty, the hopeless, lifelong, humanity-draining poverty.  It isn’t just Raul, it’s nearly everyone – coming from the US I had studied the victims of our economic policies, but I wasn’t prepared for the sights I’d see, the people I’d meet, the guilt and helplessness I would feel confronted with it all.  The mind rages – there must be a better way!  We’re not trying to help these people – how could we when we don’t even know they exist?  The poor, starving, dying, have no value in a system that cares only for productivity, shaving costs, trimming staff – maximizing profits has replaced human decency, and we all lose.

And yet… I’m no better.  After our talk, cigarette, and a few mouthfuls of water, I bid farewell to Raul, mouthed “I’m sorry” to his pleading eyes and outstretched hand, turned and walked away.  I had a bus to catch, a friend to meet, a hot meal and a shower waiting for me on the other end.  There are a billion Rauls, a billion humans like you and me out there trying and crying and dying to live.  There’s a way to help them, the means exist, but the will – that’s where we fall flat.  There isn’t any profit in keeping the poor alive, at least not one comparable to corporate piracy and waging aggressive war, and so until we change this fucked up system we live in, the Rauls of the world have to die – the bottom line demands it.

-k

Goodbye Kel

My best friend is leaving to join the US Navy for 6 years, and I’m not around to see him, go to the farewell parties, or give him a proper send-off.  Instead, I poured a bit of myself into this letter, which I’m now posting here because I have no shame.   Some of it is pretty good, if I may be so immodest.

Dude,

In… 8 days? 9? you’re leaving for the rum, buggary, and the lash – aka the Navy.  I’ve really proud of you man – my resentment of how our country’s armed forces are used notwithstanding, I admire your drive to get in there and make something of yourself.  Plus, you get to play with guns and nuclear reactors, and I’m a bit jealous.  Actually, how the fuck did they think it was a good idea to let you, of all people, play with that sort  of crazy shit?  Obviously none of them had to pull your naked ass out of a shower, or clean up your vomit spewed everywhere except the trashcan your head was in.  Kidding of course – of anyone I know, you’re going to do fantastic in that sort of work.  Just don’t you dare – don’t you fucking dare get yourself killed out there.

It hurts me deeply to be here, in Central America, while my best friend is preparing to ship off and live a whole ‘nother life for 6 years – crazy man.  It’s going to be the formative experience of you’re life, so I hope you’re ready for that.  We’re both going to come out of these travels completely changed, and I hope that we’ll still be as close afterwards as we were before I took off.  Jesus – it’s been 8 months since I saw you, 14 since we lived together – some days I still boggle at how un-connected I am to you, and to everyone we lived and died and loved and cried with.  The apartment days, new house, boy’s house, and even before all that, in high school, all our stupid tricks and jokes and dumbass games – remember Hide and Go Seek in our cars?  What the fuck were we thinking?  And even back before that, when we were in 6th grade, I the shortest kid around, awful teeth, shy as a ghost, and you, the fat asian kid eating bags of sugar and bouncing off the walls – I’m glad you never stopped bouncing off the walls man, or we wouldn’t have had half the fun we did.  Really man, up until I came down here, you were a part of everything in my life – every memory for 13 years has your goofy mug plastered right into it.  Thank you Kel, thank you for being my friend, for everything we’ve shared – heartbreak, drunken nights, laughs, the things we’ve done that I can’t talk about publicly, so many good times, some fights – who doesn’t? – some weird and awkward moments, and far too many great times, highs, lows, and everything in between.  Regardless of where we go in life, of what comes from here, I’ll never forget you man, and I’ll never let us lose contact – not willingly anyway.  (seriously, don’t you fucking die out there!)

Anyway, I’ve actually brought a tear to my own eye, so I’m going to switch gears, and write a few goofy things about our time together, share some of the writing I did in the dark days after everyone moved out of the house and left Brock and I alone, and the recipe for Waffleburgers, just for fun.  I’m posting this letter to my blog, as I do with everything these days, but don’t think for an instant that this anything other then my way of saying farewell, friend – until we meet again, whereever, whenever that may be.  I love you brother, and I know you feel the same.

And so, here goes:

Waffleburgers:
One day, when Kel and I were short on cash and full of creativity, he had a brilliant idea.  Since we had just about jack nothing in the apartment except for Eggo waffles, eggs, bacon, hamburger patties (thanks Costco) and condiments, here’s what the brilliant mind of one KGBizzle came up with -

Ingredients:

• 1 Hamburger patty
• 2 eggs
• 2 strips bacon
• 2 waffles
• syrup
• steak seasoning
• love

Toss waffles in toaster, throw frozen hamburger patty in George Foreman grill, sprinkle with steak seasoning once it is thawed somewhat, on stove, grill bacon, cook eggs in half of a tin can that you just tore apart with tin snips.  Break for “medical” herb infusion. (of you, not the food)  Once everything has cooked, assemble in this order, bottom to top – waffle, patty, egg, bacon, a fuckload of syrup, other waffle.  Sprinkle liberally with love, and serve.  This will feed one person, and can be eaten twice a day for approx 10 days or until coronary – it’s a race really.

The Worst-Best Memory I have of You:
Also in the apartment days, during the “heavy drinking” portion of our lives, there was one night during Sophomore year when you drank yourself retarded – literally.  You didn’t speak, just smiled and waved your cup of raw vodka at everyone – I think you’d forgone ice by this point.  After a hours during which we all marveled at your stamina and tried unsuccessfully to put you to bed, you said one word – shower – and retired to our shitty little bathroom.  The party went on, died down, and still no Kel had emerged from the shitter.

I put my ear to the door, heard running water, yelled your name.  Nothing.  Yell.  Nothing.  This went on a bit until I jimmied the door with a pen, and then Chad and I were greeted by you, in all your naked glory, sitting facing us, legs spread, in the shower, whose door you’d left wide open.  Semi-conscious, you still grinned at us, and said something I don’t remember.  We told you it was bedtime, you disagreed, and after a bit of diplomacy, we dragged your wet, naked ass to our shared room and tucked you into bed.  After discussing how this was the second encounter with Kel-in-the-shower, and how we hoped it wouldn’t become a theme, we also retired.

The next mornin was unpleasant – my head said “fuck youuuuu buddy!” and my body said “why, oh god, why?” More then that, the room’s funky smell was different – not just the usual dirty laundry and sweaty drunk that usually greeted us upon waking up, this morning there was the addition of what can only be described as “godawful vodka vomit.”  It was enough to make me try and go back to sleep, but my bladder and my headache and my bone-deep hatred of the smell of puke eventually conspired to make me open my eyes and face the world.

God, what a world it was – the apocalypse could scarcely have been more unwelcome.  There, in the middle of our room, was a near-circular spew of disgusting yellow(?) and chunked vomit.  6 feet in diameter, an impressive spray pattern, it spirated neatly into the middle, where my half-working eyes focused on your once-again-naked ass, curled in the fetal position, with a trashcan neatly covering your head.  It was like some sort of modern art piece, an installation that I would have titled “UCSB – the true picture” if not for the fact that I gagging on bile.

Stumbled to the bathroom, made a contribution of my stomach contents to the porcelain gods, and after a fortifying few minutes with Mooseknuckle (rest in peace, friend) I returned to the room with bucket, towels, detergent, and the only true hatred I’ve ever felt for you, Kel.  I mean it, I wanted to stab your eyes out and shit in the sockets.  I wanted to crash Sally into your civic.  I wanted to just scream and shake you – “what the fuck man!  What the fucking fuck did you do!?  However, you’re big and scary, and also my best friend, and so instead I picked you up, marveled at how the trashcan was completely, I mean completely empty of all things vodka or vomit, and put you into bed and covered you in that zebra comforter.

Then, while you spooned with your body pillow and snored softly, I spent damn-near 2 hours  cleaning the room, shampooing the carpet, detoxing the room.  I kept having to step out, swear, smoke Mental Cigarettes, (hey self-promotion!) and generally curse your very soul.  At the end of it, cleaning supplies put away, Mooseknuckle re-consulted, room smelling lemony-fresh, I stood next to your bed, and practiced my angry speech – I was going to tell you off man, give you hell, tell you cut the fuck back on the shitshows, to get some fucking help.

Just as I was about to shake you none-too-gently awake, you rolled over to face me, opened your eyes, smacked dry lips.  You looked around the room, at the floor, at the trash can back in its position by the door.  “Did you clean up my puke?”  “Yes.”  “You’re the best friend ever,” you said in a voice that meant it.  Then you rolled back over and passed out.  I stood there a long time, thinking about our friendship, about the trivial bullshit I was about to risk it over, and about how much I owed you that clean up for all the things you’ve given me and done for me.  Really friend, you were wrong – you’ve been the better friend – not just to me, but to everyone we know.  I only hope we’ll be on the same level when we meet again.

And Finally, some Angst and Worry:
I wrote this after you all moved out of Boy’s house, when I was living alone, miserable, and just begging the days to pass so that I could enter the Peace Corps and do something with my life.

8-15-08 – I need to fall in love, or just get fucked.

What is it about this time of year?  It’s like the air’s alive with change – I fear the writing scribbled on the wall, it says “Your life will end this fall.”  I know it’s true, but just don’t want to believe.  Don’t wanna think, can’t let myself, cause it just brings me down – but it’s the end of my time here in town.
So say those goodbyes while you can, I’ll leave without a sound.  No whisper – disappearing act – you won’t see me around.  My time has passed, now I must go, and that just brings me down.
I smoke myself to sleep these nights, alone in this big home – torn between “Don’t want to leave,” and “I can’t wait to roam.”  I’m gonna miss you all so bad, and all the things we’ve done – all the drunken wild nights, memories I can’t recall – no matter where we do end up, I’ll always love you all.
So say your goodbyes while you can, cause i won’t stick around.  I’ve so much left to do in life, my feet don’t touch the ground.
And while I zigzag cross the world, and hopefully off of it, I’ll think back to this life I’ve had, and regret none of it.  To all my friends and drinking pals, I pour one out to you – I’ll keep you  always in my heart, just please, remember me too.

Anyway Kel, this is stretching on rediculously long – I wish you all the best.  We’ll meet again – I’m damn sure of it, and you’d better believe we’ll have some more adventures ahead.  Apologies for the emotionall vomit – I just can’t believe we’re going to be separated for so long, and I’m not even around to say goodbye properly.  I love you man, I said that already once, but I couldn’t ask for a better friend.  All I do ask – one small favor – is that you write, email, or call me every once in a while and tell me what you’re up to.  I bet you’ll have a fantastic time, and if not, remember you can always go AWOL and hide out with me in Central America.

Peace Brother, until we meet again. -k

An Ode to Sonati

This poem needs a name.  I wrote it on the back of a spare piece of paper while crammed into a microbus with 17 Nicos, Catratchos, y Guanacos. (Nicaraguans, Hondurans, El Salvadorians for you gringo-types)  It was inspired by my time in a little hostel called Sonati in Leon, Nicaragua – a truly amazing place, a nexus of artists, adventurers, storytellers, at least one idiot. (guess who)  There’s also a dog named Uli (oo-lie) who will steal your heart, guaranteed.  If you’re in the area, stop on by, and while you’re here, you might as well read this poem and tell me what you think.  Enjoy -k

The best part of traveling lies in the meetings.
New people, new places, new friends in new places.
So easy to fall for this siren’s song dream,
think we’ll all remain friends despite distance between.
Obscene almost, isn’t it?  How easy to trust.
With the other road-souls it feels almost a must.
In our brief time together I must give you my all -
though it may bring us misery, cause one or both to fall.
For what else is there really?  What else can I do,
if I want you to know me, and want to know you?
Fully honest and open seems the only true way -
either pull you in closer or drive you away.
The ones who keep distance were never for me,
but if you’re open back then we’re friends – meant to be.
And why shouldn’t we, anyway, treat each other as cousins?
We’re all of the earth, share the same common mother.
Since you’re of like mind, then I’m sure you’ll agree -
Tell me your stories, share your secrets with me.
We’ll trade back and forth, share the few things we know,
watch lightning on the roof as we feel the wind blow.
Waves of soft moonlight, warm tropical rain,
by night’s end we’re different, but the world’s stayed the same.
I want to collapse in a cool fluffy bed,
fall asleep entertwined, kiss the back of your head.
But I can’t! – fucking tragedy – for I’ve places to be.
Never thought I’d get someone like you to like me.
So we say warm goodbyes, always promise to write,
then you go off to bed as I slip into the night.
And as love is a duel, we both turn about-faces,
cast last longing looks, motionless at 10 paces.
I smile and wink, and you laugh with your eyes,
then I shoulder my pack – long slow walk into sunrise.

Full disclosure – the first line I stole from something Veronique wrote me, the last part is inspired by Kerouac’s The Mexican Girl.

I’m Happy

I wrote this in my journal yesterday, and filled the last 5 pages.  As such, I thought I might as well share what’s on my mind these days.  I’m leaving it as unedited as possible, as it was a very stream-of-consciousness piece, and I think it’s more authentic like this.  Cheers.

10-18-09: 5 Days. I came to León 5 days ago to spend the night, and I’ve been unable to leave since.  The night of the 13^th I went out with the Sonati family (the hostel I’m at) for Neil’s going away party, and instead of dropping dead from exhaustion I instead went home with a very pretty canadian girl I met.  Had sex for the first time since December – sad – and didn’t suck at it.  She kicked me out at 5am so as not to cause an awkward scene with the Nica family she’s staying with, and I went home laughing at the ridiculousness of it all – what a life!

Every day since has been fantastic – this group I fell into is just so friendly, genuine, good.  We came together like old friends, sing without shame, share ourselves openly, talk love, life, gods without fear.  As one who tries always to be open and honest with the entire world, it is one of the greatest experiences in my life to meet people of like mind – when we’re all together here I feel as if my whole lifestyle is justified and right – no, more then that – I know that I’ve made the right choices in coming here, and that continuing this life is the absolute most important thing I can do.  To go back is impossible – not physically of course, but I CAN’T – philosophically, spiritually, for my own development’s sake, cannot return home, perhaps not ever.  Perhaps not ever – such a scary yet liberating thought – to live like this would be heaven indeed.  I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know anything except that in not knowing, in drifting, I am happy, and that to be happy is everything.

To be happy is such a wild experience – I thought that I had been!  All my life, I thought I’d had happiness, but really I had just been accepting, resigning myself to a life of lows and mediums – never even knowing highs. Finding this new, true happiness has been looking out the window one day and instead of staring at the same blank brick wall, finding that the building opposite is gone and finally seeing the world outside – mountains and rain, with a beautiful sunset beyond.  How could I not want to explore this new world, especially when I like it so much better?  It’s like the first time I heard a love song and truly understood – just as intense, just as life-changing.  I can’t go back because that old world doesn’t even exist any longer – torn down, burnt to the ground by the intensity of the new life ahead of me.  I’m not me, not who I was before.  Even if I wanted to, I can never go back to be who I was, live how I did.  The very thought makes me smile, or I would if I wasn’t already.  I’ve finally found what I want, and that is the most beautiful feeling of my life.  I only hope that everyone I care about and love can do the same one day. -k

I wrote that first part sitting in an ice cream parlor, watching kids run and yell in the park across the street.  Later I came back and wrote this next bit – connected albeit loosely to the first.

So what is it then?  What is the thing, feeling, thought, action, the truth I’ve found that sends me through life as a happy, grinning idiot, what is it that I want for the rest of my life?  What is going on that makes the new life new, separates my now from the unreachable then and what do I want to extend into the onrushing future to come?  In short, what changed?

8 months ago I started this journal as a scared, frequently depressed, often confused, perpetually lonely young man, unable to see what kept me feeling so trapped, isolated.  I begged for change, begged for a different life.  The Peace Corps, running away to Honduras, starting over – all this was a reaction to my unhappiness and desire for a new life, a different me.  Now I finish it, fill the last dirty pages with scrawled blue ink, as a still-young man, in a wholey different world, in a vastly changed life.  The confusion, fear, depression is all still here – I can hardly claim to be perfectly happy – but they’re all so much less significant to me now.  I’m in control, not my emotions.  I don’t hate myself, on the contrary I love who I’ve become.  I love my life – truly, completely.  So I must ask again – what changed?  Why am I now who I am, and not who I was?

What didn’t? – that might be a better question if I was looking to make a list – but no, that isn’t what I mean.  I’m looking for a shift, a difference in how I act, interact, react that changes everything else – a trigger – and it might be best summed up best as this – on the edge of a great black unknown, faced with the choice between stepping back, being safe, or just throwing myself into the world, I leapt – jumped into a life I knew nothing about.  On April 21^st I was given a mandate – get out of the Peace Corps, take a plane home, rebuild, and find another route to making myself happy in their world – “they” being of course the people who influence, shape, lead our society – and I almost took it as a given that that was what I needed to do.  I just didn’t see another option – there’s only one world right?  One society, one way to fit in.  I didn’t know I had another choice.

It wasn’t until that night, tossing sleepless in my hotel bed, that I asked myself the most obvious question in the universe – why?  Why am I actually trying to fit myself into a role I don’t want, as a member of a society completely at odds with the way I view life?  What stops me from changing that, from living as I wish to?  I thought long and hard, and the only answer I came to was me.  I’m doing it – I’m keeping myself here, making myself unhappy, trapping myself in this life.  No one else could – no one save me controls me or my life.  So what then stops me from changing, from going another direction, from searching out happiness by me instead of as defined by them?  I fell asleep smiling because I knew the answer to that one – it was only me, and if I’m the only thing standing in my way, well, I know how to fix that.

I jumped the next day – ran away, and in doing so, dropped into wild, miserable limbo.  As it turns out, being happy on your terms is impossible when you don’t know them, when you’ve never tried and don’t even know how.  My initial excitement was blunted quickly, early, brutally against the reality of life in Honduras without money, at my awful job at the Casa Kiwi.  After June, July – miserable, drunk, without purpose or path – it almost broke me.  I nearly gave up altogether, came within days of going back home, buying a plane ticket back to their life, not mine.

I didn’t though – realized that life in another place is not all it takes, that living by someone else’s rules is diametrically opposed to what I wanted, and so again I leapt.  Quit my job without plans and set out afresh – no job, home, nothing we’re taught to view as a safety net – you can’t have safety and start over – so I took a go into the unknown once again.

This clean break from everything familiar, from even the structure – job, house, social network, routine – the formula of life I’d always assumed to be natural, turned out to be what I needed to find my own goals, my own terms.  These past months adventuring, hitchhiking, running, making friends, traveling, have caused me to change so much that I scarcely recognize who I was before – the new me forged is forged by the new life – open, spontaneous, driven only to be happy, and without the self-limitationsand doubts that crippled me before.

So to answer the question – what changed? – I dove headfirst into the great unknown, shed the bonds of what I thought I knew, of social convention, of my own expectations – this has made all the difference.  All that which comes from here stems back to that. -k

I left it here, out of space, but I’m still not completely satisfied with what I’ve written – there’s more that must be said, I haven’t yet said what it is that I’ve found, and so I’ll try and put that next.

10-19-09: I don’t have all the answers, and I know that I can’t live entirely outside of society – at least, I personally can’t, because there are so many things I need from others, from the world.  Companionship for starters – I’m a very social person, and one of my greatest joys is in meeting others, picking their minds, finding others in the world who know what I don’t and can teach me that which I haven’t yet learned.  I’ve always been like this, but now I know that there is nothing to fear in the new, the unknown, in walking right up to the most beautiful woman I’ve seen and starting a conversation, or in joining a group of people and making friends with them.  I depend on the world for food, for a roof over my head, for a ride down the highway even – I’ve never been so dependant on others then I am in this new life, and so I can’t pretend to be living outside of society.

Still, I’ve found a way to live my terms because I’ve found a new way to interact with the world – instead of settling down, instead of searching for some place or that ephemeral “something” that will make me feel less alone or unhappy, I know now that I am in control of how I fit into this crazy thing called life – if I’m not happy, then nobody can make me stay that way except for myself.  If I don’t like how my day is going, I can change it – I think I knew this before, but I was just too afraid to act on it.  The first leap was terrifying, but once I saw the beauty in it, felt the sting, experienced failure and got over it, then every leap since has been easier – fun even.  The trick – for me, since I can’t speak for anyone else – is in summing the courage to just go, and in maintaining myself in a state – emotionally, but also in terms of possessions and physical condition – from which I can take these leaps whenever the need or desire strikes me.

This necesitates a certain sacrifice – I’m limited to a handful of belongings, whatever I can carry with me, and I can’t ever get too attached to any of them.  I don’t have a house, won’t let myself get into a career, can’t go buy a new car or even a new cell phone.  It’s the antithesis of what I’ve been taught by society to want – no stability, nothing long-term, little in the way of protection – but it’s become blindingly obvious to me that those things, supposedly good, are what has kept me from being truly free, able to make my own decisions, and thus unhappy, for my entire life.  If I wish to continue living like this, I will have to accept that I won’t ever be the one with the cool new car, the new clothes, the house to come back to.  I wonder still if I’ll be content as a traveler, as a bum, living without anything of material value for the rest of my life.

Then I remember two things that make me not worry about that.  First, I’m not locked into this life – if it ever becomes unfun to live as I do, if the hassles of my existence outweigh the benefits, if love fades to leave just a bitter taste in the back of my mouth, I am in no way obligated to do this forever.  Unlike the sedentary life of those with toys and belongings, I can always come back to it.  The opposite isn’t true – if I have a lease, a mortgage, and a contracted job, how on earth can I flee?  This freedom thing does have its benefits.  The 2nd thing I remember when I’m doubting myself is that I did have a car, piles of possessions, and a roof to call my own, and I was a truly miserable person, self-medicating on marijuana, alcohol, buying stupid shit to bring a spark of interest into my monotonous days.  I can still get a job, I can find a place to live, and hitchhiking is more fun then driving any day – I’m still able to settle down a bit, as I’ll be doing in the next few days, work, build up the funds to travel again.  I have options available to me that no one on the other side can understand unless they’ve been standing where I am now.  I’m not claiming to have found the key to all happiness, but at least for now I’ve created a life I am content with, one where I go through my days smiling, one that lets me be myself without fear of the reprecussions.  If that means I’ll never have “made it” by societal standards, then I can only reply “fuck it, I’m happy” because I know that in life, being happy is all that counts.  I’m happy.

Choice

Choice

At the bottom of everything, we have choice.

It is the purest, truest, perhaps only virtue that exists.

Underlying every great deed, every soul-destroying evil, everything between

lies choice.

Choice

What shall I do today?

Write something world-changing, paradigm-shifting or

will I just lie in bed, play with my cock, blank out my mind?

Will I run into a girl, chase her halfway across the world,

or will I just say fuck it and die?

Choice

A blessing some days or a curse -

depends how you look at it really.

All life shaped, formed,

by our whims, desires, wants.

Choice

So make those which you want to,

avoid those you can’t stand,

just know. Know

that the choices we make shape our reality – and

if you don’t like how life goes, choose to change it.

Choice

A 2nd Letter to Veronique

Ver-

I haven’t checked my email in 2-3 days and the newest one today is yours – how cool is that? Love your message – you seem exhausted! Hope you’re sleeping well, and I’m glad you worked things out with your friend and had fun in NYC.

I never made it past Leon, came here after 6 hours in buses from San Juan, met up with 3 Norwegian students in town, and I was aiming to go to the Tortuga and pass out for a night, then head straight up to Tina’s for a week or so. The plan lasted until I got off the bus in Leon, because immediately I got approached by Norreine, an Irish woman traveling alone across the Americas. She asked me if I had a hostel for the night, then told me about Sonati, a new non-profit hostel built to fund some environmental and women’s rights work here in town. She told me there was a great crowd, good vibe, and plenty of fun times, so I followed her back to town – that’s how I found the best hostel I’ve ever been in.

Sonati is a converted house, barely 6 weeks old, with fantastic beds, a central garden, a rooftop laundry area for me to hang out on, and the hands-down best vibe of any place I’ve ever found. The people! It’s all artists and musicians, philosophers, wanderers, dreamers, and people who love to party. I don’t have to tell you how well I fit in here – it’s like I walked into my best friend’s house and all my other friends were here too, and nobody is leaving! Sure, there’s a transfer in and out, but the core group is mostly intact, and those who do come are exactly the right sort – I don’t know it works out this way, but it’s like this place only draws people who fit in, or perhaps it’s just that everyone fits here, gets formed by the energy of the place, and meshes in without issue.

Well, that’s not entirely true – there was a burglary the second night – some guy came in to check in, then proceeded to break into every locker, stole a lot of cameras, a pair of passports, and then fled. What a fuckhead. My stuff was behind the front desk at the time, so I didn’t lose anything, but some of my friends lost all their photos, money, and more. How awful is that? It was cool to see the whole hostel band together behind these people though, and maybe we’ll find the theif if we’re lucky.

I’m ahead of myself though, I skipped part of the story – when I first got into the hostel I threw all my clothes into the laundry except for my drawing pants and the shirt that smelled least like shit and mold, and sat down to the check my email. The first one was from Gina, a friend I traveled to San Juan with, and it said “DUDE I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT I HAVE YOUR PASSPORT AND YOU HAVE MINE! GET BACK HERE!” I thought it was a joke until I realized that the next 6 emails were the same. Went to check my passport and sure enough it wasn’t mine! We must have swapped at the border accidentally, but I don’t know how in the hell it happened. I shoot an email back, tell her to meet me in Rivas, and she replies on Facebook that we’ll meet at the bus station at noon. (Hey look, Facebook!)

I stay up all night, drinking and laughing with my new friends, then write a whole lot until 4:30am, board the 5:15 bus to Managua, and I’m in Rivas after 2 buses, 3 naps, and a taxi ride at 11. I eat breakfast, and while I am this guy keeps coming by trying to sell me a hammock. He started at $10 and every time I said no he went down a dollar. He’d leave, come back, I’d say no, and he’d leave again to come back a buck cheaper. When it got to $3 I caved in and bought one, and so now I have a hammock. I spent 2 hour at the station, got asked to buy watches, condoms, food, water, sodas, bags, and everything else under the sun. Finally, at 1pm Gina showed up, we hugged, swapped documents, and I hopped the next bus north to do the same crazy ride over again in reverse. After some more napping – I didn’t sleep a full night in 5 nights, and by now I think I’m at 9 – I hit Sonati again, where I’d left all my things, and got a round of applause from my new friends. 12 hours of travel, on my “relaxation” day, jesus fuck that sucked!

Everyone was headed to dinner as I came into the hostel, so I put down my bag, walked right back out into the streets. It was the farewell party for Matt, a guy who had been in the hostel 3 weeks with Dengue – he was a riot, singing obscene and inappropriate songs about the world around him, just so overly, jokingly, sexual to everyone about everything. He reminded me of one of my best friends from home too, so it worked out great. We went to Barbaro, because Matt had given them his recipe for Buffalo wings, and we ate great big plates of them, washed down by beers and rum. Matt got a card and a shirt that said “I survived Leon and EL DENGUE” and we laughed, talked, and made merry. It was perfect for me – I fell into a whole group of friends and was instantly accepted.

After dinner and 5 rum and Canada Drys, we went to another hostel where it was Tuesday Salsa night, where Martin, this crazy Irish fiddle player, and I got into a bit of a competition dancing girls all over the place – an amazing time for us, but some of the poor girls were just getting thrown around! After that place split up, I followed the rest of the people who just wanted to dance to another club – Illion I think – and the place was packed with bodies, salsa and bachata playing. I got another drink, went looking for gorgeous girls who wanted to dance, and that’s when I see her off to one side, looking like she was waiting for someone. I decided that someone was me, started a conversation with her, and tried to get her to dance.

I don’t know how – the same answer most every woman in the world gives, and I tell her I’ll teach her. We do the basics of salsa in one of the side rooms, move to bachata, west coast swing, and keep getting closer and more sensual. At some point we’re just kissing against a wall, and I ask her if she wants to get out of there. She lives in Leon it turns out, has a house, which beats the hell out of my hostel dorm. We stumble the streets, holding hands, laughing – I haven’t done this in forever – nervous!

I shouldn’t have been, she was great, fun, and when she snuck me out at 5am to avoid an awkward scene with her Nica host family, I asked her how I’d ever find her again. She smiled, said we’d figure it out, we kissed, and I was out on the street alone. At the street corner I started laughing, and couldn’t stop for blocks – what a ridiculous day! I didn’t even know R’s name until we were in bed, we shared no personal information, and I got lost coming back from her house, so I had no idea how to find her. It wasn’t until last night when I was talking to some local friends about the whole thing that they knew her and I found out where she works. I’m not sure if I’ll go looking for her again – it seemed like she wasn’t really interested in me in the longer-then-a-night sense, and Monday I leave for Antigua. Still, it was much needed, and I’m glad it all happened.

Since then I’ve been spending every day writing and wandering Leon, every night dancing and making a scene of myself. I love that you gave me advice on how to get girls, because if you saw me this past week you’d probably think “wow, that guy is a whore” much more then “he needs help meeting women.” I’m not completely helpless at the opposite sex – I just really like you, and wasn’t interested in other people when we were around each other. Still, your advice is valid, and I’ll keep it in mind just in case.

What else… I too was struck by how we wrote each other the same stuff, and your letter is definitely going to be with me forever – in Antigua I’m going to scan the whole thing, page by page, into a document, so even if I lose the physical journal I’ll have all the memories. I’m so proud of you for the cigs! 2 packs is great, keep it going. I’m smoking one a day, just for fun really – after the first 3 days, I didn’t get the physical urge, and right now I’ve got a pack sitting untouched right in front of me. Anyway, I think it’s dinner time for me, and I’ll of course keep writing you! It’s a great way to organize my thoughts, and so long as you don’t mind I’m going to post these to my blog – not yours, unless you want – but my letters to you, because they’re good summaries of what’s going on with my life.

Best of luck in your travels from here, sleep off New York, and have a rum and Canada Dry for me sometime. I miss you loads, but we’ll meet again someday.

Besos -k

Travel Photos

Finally got back in contact with Sjoerd, the guy I traveled all over Central America with in August, September. He has some of his pictures up over at http://picasaweb.google.com/lekkerzonderwekker – the guy is a great photographer, and since I don’t own a camera any longer, it’s one of the few chances I have to show you all photos of the places I am.

Take a look!

A Letter to Veronique

Veronique,

I hope this letter finds you well and safe in New York – none too cold with your lack of cold-weather clothes, or out in the streets without a home either.  I’m sure you’re fine, because honestly, it’s New York City.  It’s expensive as fuck and impersonal, but a really easy place to survive in if you’re a gorgeous Flemish girl with good English.  Did you ever meet up with your ex?  If you did, I only hope things didn’t turn weird or awkward, because frankly that shit sucks, and I’d rather you didn’t have to deal with that sort of dramarama.  If you get a break from having a fine time and living it up in the big apple, I’d love a trip update.

Speaking of which, here’s what I’m up to these days – currently I’m sitting in a little restaurant in San Juan del Sur, Jerry’s I think, drinking coffee and leeching wifi.  Not on facebook though, so I’m doing good by you.  Only had 5 cigs the past 3 days, all when I was out drinking, most when I saw pretty girls smoking and wanted an in – isn’t that an awful thing to admit? I’m only poisoning myself when I want to meet girls and can’t think of a wittier or better way to talk to them.  Ah well, I’ve done worse.  You’d better be sticking to your 7 a day, or I’ll kick your ass for it.  Come to think of it, when I come visit Belgium, I’ll kick your ass anyway if you’re still smoking, don’t think I won’t.  I don’t care how sexy you make it look, it’s a filthy habit, and you’ll look like a saggy old crone by 30 and your boobs will be saggy, and we all know you’ll never get boys to like you if you look like that.  I’m really glad I took you up on your advice to come to San Juan, because this place is really tranquilo, chill, and just a hell of a lot of fun.  I got here Friday night, checked into la Casa Feliz, and proceeded to get embarrassingly drunk until I couldn’t feel feelings any longer.  I danced a while, smoked, met weird and wild people I’ll never see again, and generally tried to get my mind off the sad part that wanted to go to New York.  It more or less worked, I crashed out at 4am or so, I think – not having a watch and all, I’m guessing.  Yesterday was spent in lounging, talking, storytelling, smoking a bit with some English friends I made, and reading.  Angela’s Ashes was superb – I just finished it today, so thank you for that.  Sad life, but that guy probably grew up with the best-grounded worldview.  I’ve spent a lot of time resting, relaxing between wild nights, and I think tomorrow morning early I head off to Tina’s – still haven’t met anyone to bring with me, but perhaps that’s a good thing, no?  I could use more practice at being alone anyhow, since I’m pretty bad at it.

I really like your letter in my journal – I’ve read it through a few times now, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face – you’re welcome, a thousand times – it was my pleasure really, all of it – chasing after you in Leon was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life.  The last part, the dutch, I’m going to give you my best shot at the translating, and while you are allowed to laugh and make fun of me, I don’t want to know about it!  It says something like – The beauty of travel is in meeting – meeting other people, other cultures, the nature – make voecal with jezey.  I’m not sure on the last part at all, but it’s along the lines of “shout it from the rooftops” or “enjoy the fuck out of it” – Google translator helped on a few words, and it turns out I spell for shit in Dutch, but I like the message anyway.  I found this bit of song in Angela’s Ashes and liked it, so here it is:

Are you lonesome tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Does your memory stray
to that bright summer’s day
When I kissed you
and called you sweetheart?

It doesn’t fit us, isn’t supposed to and we’re not Irish enough, but I like the question, mainly because I’ve been missing you ever since we split ways – a whole 3 days, I know, but it feels like they’ve been dragged out forever.  It sounds stupid – it is stupid – but I just want to find someone to sit around with, thinking, talking, laughing, telling stories, smoking, smiling, and being happy.  San Juan del Sur is a great town, but I just can’t seem to find that sort of person – a shame, because I could use one about now – haven’t been the happiest lately, but you already figured that out.  Not that anyone would know if they didn’t know me – I smile, laugh, entertain strangers, keep up my act.  I’m not going to bullshit you though – I’ve been down in the dumps ever since you left, and I’ll be for a while still.  I didn’t realize just how much I enjoyed having you as part of my life until now, because ever since we met you’ve either been a part of it, or i’ve been planning to meet you again.  It’s only now, after the end, the split, that I can honestly feel how much you mean to me – the pain in my chest says you’re pretty special.  So thank you, really, for taking the crazy guy with the dirty clothes up on his offer to run off to “paradise” – it was a wonderful trip we’ve had, and I’d do it all over again if I had the chance.  Wouldn’t change a thing, but I’d kiss you at the airport if we did that over – that makes the story better.

Anyway, I should get out of here – stealing wifi at this restaurant isn’t making me any friends among the staff, and I’m out of laptop battery.  You said keep in touch, so here’s me doing that – you’d better write back friend!  Miss you loads, but you’re off having a fantastic adventure, and I’m happy for you.  Best of luck with the rest of your trip, and we’ll meet again one day – I’m sure of it, because if we don’t meet up again naturally I’ll show up on your doorstep one day.  Don’t think I’m joking!

totdat we elkaar weer hier is de kus kan ik niet geven,

-k

Response to the UCSB Alumni Survey

I wrote this in response to an email I got from my old university, and liked it enough to post it on a website nobody visits. Enjoy?

Dear Maria,

I wish I could take your survey, but the fact is that ever since I escaped UCSB with my near-worthless BA in Philosophy, paid off my debts working jobs that required no semblance of a college degree, and fled to Central America, I have found myself utterly unable to do, or even imagine doing, anything that comes in a standardized form, which unfortunately includes the Undergraduate Alumni Survey. I apologize profusely, but as I sit here at 11am in a surfing town in Nicaragua, sipping delicious coffee between breakfast and whatever I might end up doing this afternoon, debating the merits of heading a few hundred miles north to visit a friend at her beautiful slice of beachside paradise or go instead to Guatemala chasing girls, I really just boggle at the idea of sitting down and filling out a survey about how post-UCSB life is treating me – instead, I’ll take the same 15 minutes and happily write this email, and probably better explain how my life has changed then I could in any survey. Plus, my internet connection is god-awful, and loading another page just doesn’t appeal to me. So sorry.

Here’s how my life has changed from UCSB to now – at UCSB I took a lot of classes that I found uninteresting, rote, and useless to my life. I wanted to take a lot of classes, don’t get me wrong,, but the ones I found interesting and useful all seemed to be parts of majors and tracks I couldn’t be a part of because I was busy getting terrible grades in History of Islamic Art and Architecture, or maybe Special Issues in Women’s Literature, which was really just 4 hours a week of some angry old crone raging against everything and anything with a Y-chromosome and a dick – I never thought I could hate attending a class of 40 girls and me, but that happened. Meanwhile in evolutionary theory classes, graduate PoliSci and chemistry, engineering, the classes I couldn’t be a part of and had to instead sneak into after the first few days of class, I learned all sorts of fascinating things – useful ones too – and did it all without ever receiving credit. I got shit for grades in my classes because I hated them, because I couldn’t get into the ones that were interesting, because I got shit grades. You see the circle here, don’t you Maria? Catch-22 in action, and I was stuck in the middle.

So that was UCSB, that and binge drinking, empty sex, a lot of hungover mornings, a list of jobs I didn’t like, and a lot of drunkenness. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t completely unhappy – I made friends, I had a lot of fun, and I grew up a lot – all parts of going off to college. Still, a year and quarter later, sitting here, I’m only glad I went to your college because of the value other people put on that stupid fucking piece of paper, the one I only like because it has Arnold the Governator’s signature, and I can one day show my kids Terminator then tell them that the evil robot from the future later got to run our whole state into the ground face first, just shitbagged us all. It’ll be worth a laugh when they don’t believe me, and then I go get my degree to show them his signature. Really, that’s the only reason I care about my degree at all – because other people act as if I’ve accomplished something when really I just threw money into the fireplace, jumped through a very expensive hoop, got my pat on the head, got my biscuit, and now I’m magically qualified to work other jobs.

UCSB is too expensive, top-heavy with asshole business school graduates posing as administrators, raising their own ridiculous salaries while furloughing workers, busting unions, throwing poor workers the scraps and gorging themselves on the obscene student fees and dues, extorting kids who just don’t want to be poor and working a shit job their whole life. Here boy, good boy, lookie what I got here – a diploma. You want a diploma, don’t you boy? A nice little diploma, you can work as a manager instead of a warehouse handler, you can afford the things that we pretend in the USA make you happy. Just reach a little further boy, put a little more cash fireplace, and everything will work out fine. Not a day went by at UCSB that I didn’t feel like a fucking hampster on a wheel, running always to find a better, happier life, and never going anywhere except down.

UCSB did help me though, with one thing. I learned at your university that the world I lived in, the one I was trying to become a part of was fucked and awful, not fit for anyone who ever wanted to be happy. Instead of looking to get ahead, to rise to the top, I started looking for a way out, found one, took it, and here I am in Central America, having the time of my life.

I don’t mean a vacation, I mean a full-on checking out and letting go, a clean break with the life I had and didn’t like, a way to escape the miserable cycle of awake, arise, eat, work, shit, sleep, awake, arise, supplemented by buying new and diifferent toys, things, devices, placebos for the real problem that life in the US style destroys everything it touches, corrupt the beautiful, corrodes the good, saps the value out of virtue, rewards blunt stupid drive for success at the expense of all other things. All for me, fuck the little guy – if they can’t stand up for themselves we can just roll over them and not even look back – it is an awful way to live, and UCSB perpetuates that uncaring, uninvolved, individually miserably lifestyle by being a big unfeeling diploma factory – put the money in, fuck around for 4 years, get a piece of paper, and welcome to the next circle of hell. No, I won’t do it, I realized, I would rather die then live like that – so here I am.

It’s a better life Maria, it really is. Adventure, friends from everywhere, a culture and language more expressive, kinder, more interested in your life and yourself. I imagine you have a home, kids, a husband, investments, a car or 2, a retirement account – a lot of things tying you to your life where you are, and perhaps you’re quite happy as well – I would hope so. However, the best thing I ever did with my young life is to have run when I had the chance, slipped the bonds of material society, tore my eyes off the TV, got sober(ish) and ran like hell. Thus far, I’ve never looked back, or been so happy as I have since I left. So thank you, and thank you to everyone at UCSB for the piece of paper Ahnold signed, as it has proven my key to getting the fuck out of Dodge, away from the life I hated, and into one I love. Still, UCSB was not a good time for me, and I’m thankful every day I’m away from that place – it’s not a very warm or friendly place, and I got the distinct feeling that nobody gave 2 shits about me except when I didn’t pay on time.

Thanks for reading, and good day to you. If you’re ever unhappy with your life, remember that the rest of the world doesn’t work like the USA, and there are places out in the world still where your neighbors know you, where starting conversations with strangers isn’t the mark of a criminal or dangerous psychopath, and where people you don’t know genuinely care about you. Oh, and it’s cheap as sin to live down here – I live twice as nicely on half as much, and don’t have to work all day every day just to keep a roof over my head. Well, take care, and remember to smile.

-k

A Series of Small Mistakes Culminating in My Fleeing From Drug Dealers

One of the things you always have to look out for when you’re on the road is the near-limitless pile of pushers, pimps, peddlers, and players trying to take advantage of the unwary traveler. Due to the fact that a whole lot of people like to travel, and a much smaller group are actually good at it, there has grown up in Central America a heathy culture of screwing over stupid white people – it’s a cousin to the other popular sport of shooting fish in a barrel. Now, I’ve no room to talk – I sit here sipping on a Fresca that I just overpaid 50% for since I didn’t walk across the street to check prices there – to be honest, it tastes a bit like wasted money, but a whole lot more like cane sugar, which beats the hell out of your American drinks and their high fucktose corn syrup – but I digress… The point here is that by the sheer virtue of being white, you are a target for all manner of schemers, thieves, troublemakers, and “the wrong sort of people.” You can minimize your chances of getting taken advantage of by playing it smart, not getting into situations you don’t understand, and not letting yourself get cowed by fast talkers, but in the end we all fuck up, make mistakes, and get into trouble – it is just a basic fact of life in a foreign culture.

Sometimes however, that just isn’t exciting enough – sure, you got talked out of 20 Lempira by a sad-faced boy, or someone picked your phone out of your pocket while you were sleeping on a bench in the bus station, or the taxi driver overcharges you substantially, but that’s not the sort of thing I can sit down and write a story about. No, to be worthy of a Citizen K adventure, you’ve got to go big, to really and truly fuck up to the point of putting your own life in danger. Here’s a story of how that happened, how we got out of it, and what we should have done instead. Spoiler: we survived.

How to Identify a Drug Pusher:

Someone you won’t meet often in the US unless you go actively looking for drugs is the peculiar fellow that I’ve taken to calling the Drug Pusher. The reason I won’t go so far as to call him a dealer is that he doesn’t actually have drugs most of the time, but sells them nonetheless – usually in the employ of a dealer but occasionally freelance, so to speak. How he goes about doing this is pretty interesting, at least to me. The Pusher goes about his life, travels the world, has another job sometimes, and meets absolutely everyone. He is a social butterfly, loved by all the little old ladies, popular with the girls, pals with every guy between 13 and 30, and looked up to all the younger kids. The thing that sets him apart from any other charming, well-spoken, popular young guy is that he finds a way to bring the topic of marijuana or drug use up very early on in meeting new people. It’s not subtle, usually some variant of “Hey man, are you new around here? I’m Larry, welcome to the neighborhood. Hey, weird question, you like to smoke weed?” To a positive assertion he’ll go on, preaching the taste, flavor, effect of the product he’s connected to, playing up the crowd before he goes in for the kill. He won’t ever offer you drugs, because he doesn’t have to – if you’re looking for something, you’re going to ask, and lo-and-behold, he turns out to be just the person you needed to meet. If you’re in a far-away land and want to engage in some healthy substance use or less-healthy substance abuse, the Drug Pusher is a character that will enter your stories from time to time.

How We Got Into Shit With Vlad:

We met Vlad (yeah, a Nicaraguan named Vladamir) in the back of a truck headed south. Sjoerd and I had our thumbs out, the driver stopped, we hopped into the back utility cage of the pickup and off we all went. As often happens when people are allowed to ride in the back of trucks, we weren’t the first bums who’d gotten a free ride – the 3 guys in the back gave us a once-over, we returned the favor, then everyone said their introductions and went back to standing around or sitting in the back of the truck. The exception was Vlad, the mid-20s Garifuna (dark-skinned) dude with an old American Eagle T-shirt, 12” pigtails, and slightly gapped front teeth that were hardly noticeable above the sheer force of his personality. Vlad, after warmly shaking our hands, started up a conversation with Sjoerd about fun things to do, and within a couple sentences asked him if he’d ever smoked weed. Playing it smart, Sjoerd admitted “yeah, a few times,” and pushed the subject down the road, but he and I shared a glance that said “well, do we want some?” It’s illegal in Nicaragua, we’re living hand to mouth and out of our backpacks – this is a bad idea. Yet, true to form, we didn’t immediately throw out the suggestion – be thankful for that, because if we had, there wouldn’t be this little adventure story for you to enjoy!

Twenty or so minutes down the road, after some random conversing and several more subject changes to and from drugs, our driver pulled up to his neighborhood and we – Sjoerd, Vlad, I – jumped out and started walking. While Vlad and I talked about his work (truck driving) his family (lived with his mother and little sister) and the town we were walking toward, Sjoerd and I were having a simultaneous non-verbal conversation about whether or not we should ask this guy if we can buy ganja. Combined, it must have looked ridiculous – 2 gringo-as-all-fuck backpackers and this big dude in a too-small shirt and pigtails walking along the highway talking inanities while the white guys shoot hand signals and weird looks at each other.

We walked a few kilometers, which gave us plenty of time to think things over. In the end, I asked Vlad if the reason he’d brought up weed so many times was because he wanted to sell some of it, and while he denied that, he did tell us that he “knew some guys.” Good enough – we followed him into town, Chichigalpa I think. Here’s where it got surreal: remember how he lives with his mom? Well, we went straight to his mother’s house and took a seat on the couch. Then, because Vlad is a pusher, not a dealer, we gave him the crazy-looking plastic bills with transparent sections that they call money here, and we sat around watching a National Geographic special on Fidel Castro in Spanish while he took off to get the product. The look we shared somewhere in here was priceless – “what in the fuck have we gotten ourselves into here?” – still, we’d taken a swan dive right into this one, and to get out was more difficult then just waiting to see how things turned out. We sat, played with the dog, and talked with 6-year-old Diana while we waited.

I was reassured by two things here – first was that Esmeralda, Vlad’s mom, and Diana, the little sister, were very nice, completely normal, and very friendly considering they undoubtedly knew we were buying illicit substances from their son. The second was that the dog, Rufo, was a fucking angel, loved being pet, and was one of the best groomed, fed, and most loving animals I’ve met in Central America. “Sure, Vlad sells pot,” I reasoned, “but his family is great, his dog isn’t abused, and everyone around here seems to like him – how bad can this really get?” Well… here comes that part of the story.

Vlad came back a bit later in the afternoon, right about the time I was sharing with his mother the intimate details of my time with the Peace Corps in Honduras. (which, incidentally, I just took the passwords off of here on Mental Cigarettes – check them out!) I opted to give her the abridged version, we said our goodbyes, and after Vlad slipped me a bag containing substantially shittier weed then he’d described, we were out the front door. Now, here’s the part where a person concerned about security would recognize that he had stretched his luck, come out thus far unharmed, and ought leave now before that all changes – being a different sort of person, the kind who seeks adventure at personal expense, puts his trust in the generosity and goodness of strangers, and consequently spends a lot of his time on the razor’s edge of disaster, I instead took a different course.

“Hey guys,” Vlad asked, “did you know that Flor de Caña rum is distilled here?”

“Here like in Nicaragua, or here like right here?” I responded.

“Right here man, we can just walk right up to the place, smoke, have a look around.”

“Sounds cool man, let’s do it.” I ask, then shoot a glance at Sjoerd, who nods. All of a sudden, we’ve an adventure on our hands, but we don’t realize what kind yet.

Vlad leads us across the street and a few blocks down before turning into a run-down block of homes and pulperias. Kids are playing soccer barefoot with a well-patched and scratched ball, a scrawny dog trots by, tail between her legs, plastic plate in her mouth. Families, not just one but a good 6 entire families, sit out in front of their houses in plastic chairs and on curbs, just sitting. In other words, it was any other poor neighborhood in Central America, with one crucial difference – everyone stopped when we walked into their midst – the game, the people talking, and instead they all glared unfriendly eyes at us. Well fuck – guess we’d found another part of the world where white faces aren’t welcome, especially when those faces are attached to the big bags that say “this person is richer then you, and for his pleasure, he comes to visit your part of the world just to fuck around.” It’s shittier when it’s true – I have no good reason to be here – I’m just passing through on the way to Costa Rica. I was about to mention this to Vlad when I realized something crucial – they weren’t looking at us, they were looking at Vlad with deep distrust.

I didn’t know what to do with this information – it didn’t fit with my train of thought, but I stole a glance at Sjoerd, and he’d seen it too – at least we were on the same page. Half a block down it got weirder – a smallish guy in a blue shirt and worn jeans whistled loudly, I snapped my head in that direction, started wondering if he was a threat, but then Vlad whistled back and waved. It still didn’t feel right, but if Vlad knew him… I let my mind slip back down a few notches – lets just smoke a joint, see a rum distillery, and get the fuck out of here. The guy in blue came up to us, slapped hands with Vlad, and introduced himself – “Mynameisdavid” he said in one breath, no spaces, the word vomit approach to English – thus Mynameisdavid he became. After the introduction, Vlad led us down a foot path, and Mynameisdavid followed – here’s the first point I decided that we needed to change the situation, where Juan Carlos’ warning voice broke through my comfortable reality – this was not a good scene.

Down the path a hundred meters, I asked Vlad if we could stop and smoke there instead of going all the way into the distillery – it was getting late, I said, and we needed to keep going south. He shrugged, we sat down on a log, and Sjoerd did his magic Dutch joint-rolling trick while I tried to keep Vlad and Mynameisdavid talking about themselves, about their families, histories, anything. Vlad took off his shirt in the clinging heat, and that’s when I saw the 4” ragged scar on his right shoulder – an unmistakable knife wound. “What’s that from,” I asked, wanting to see how he lied so I catch it again later. He didn’t though – “It was a knife, a machete actually.” I gave a low whistle, and told him he was lucky to still have an arm. “Better off then the other guy, he’s dead now.” was the reply, delivered straight to my face without blinking or smiling. I laughed, but it was forced. Sjoerd finished rolling the joint, and I’ve rarely needed one like I did then.

We sat in our little circle, 2 brown faces, 2 white ones, smoking what ended up being pretty awful weed. Actually, I don’t know to be honest – most of the marijuana high is your own perception of it, and right at that moment I wasn’t in any mood to be spacey and get lost in my own head. Instead, all I felt was wariness and fear – this was not a good situation. “When you are in a bad situation, change it. Take control – they have a plan, so get away from it.” Juan Carlos’ words, delivered to a frightened Peace Corps training class came bubbling up out of my subconscious. I felt the knife in my front right pocket, its weight suddenly magnified – but could I use it, even if I had to? Better not to find out.

“Hey guys, we really need to get going,” I said, “and we need some food before we go. Do you know a good cheap comedor or restaurant around here?” Change.

“Yeah,” Sjoerd chimed in, “I’m really hungry, lets do that.” Awesome wingman, this guy.

Vlad and Mynameisdavid shared a look, and even though it lasted an instant, the message was pretty unmistakable – Fuck, this isn’t going as we wanted. Good, I thought, exactly what we were going for.

After tramping back out of the same neighborhood, enduring the same warning yet scared looks of the families alongside the road, we were on the main road. Here I fucked up again – we could have turned right, walked along the busy main road straight to the highway, hitched a ride, and gotten the fuck out of dodge. We actually started doing this, but as we were saying goodbyes Vlad pointed out that we’d come from that direction and we hadn’t passed any comedores on the way in. It was true, and we were hungry – after a few second’s hesitation we turned left and put ourselves back at the mercy of 2 guys who quite definitely had bad intentions for us. Fuck. However, Vlad did give away part of the game here, telling us that the bus station was ahead of us, right near the center of town – it really pays off to listen to what information people let slip.

A few hundred meters down the road we got to a central plaza, a statue set in the middle of the road that cars had to swerve around – a great strategy, Sjoerd pointed out, for dealing with the problem of drunk drivers. The statue’s base had the marks to back that statement up. We circled around it, and ahead of us on the right was a little unnamed restaurant. The family that owned it was sitting out front, and we received a welcome that would have sent paint peeling back to wherever it had come from. “I know, I know, we’re in shitty company,” I wanted to respond, but couldn’t for obvious reasons. Going up the front steps, I headed into – well, I walked straight into this family’s living room and grandma – why does everyone do that here? The restaurant was apparently confined to the 2 small tables on the front porch, so I gave my best “yeah, I’m a dumb white person” grin and headed back out. Sjoerd was already seated, everyone laughed, just another of my bonehead moves. And so we sat down, alternating natives and gringos, around 3 sides of a small wooden table with a tired tablecloth and an even more tired jar of pickled onions in the center. It was awkward at best – really it was uncomfortable because none of the 4 of us wanted to be there, at least not together. Sjoerd and I were pretty happy about sitting down to eat, but not with 2 guys who had obviously malicious intentions, and they didn’t want to be sitting in public with 2 guys whom they couldn’t exactly rob or mess with in front of a whole family – thus, awkward. It was good though, because it gave us time to think, to plan, to change the situation more – time is almost always your friend when you’re trying to get out of a bad decision or five.

We ordered the cheapest plates on the menu, had a quick english conversation about offering our friends something to eat as well, and thus possibly get on their better side, but decided against it on the grounds that we’re totally broke – we offered them drinks anyway. Then, while Vlad sulked, sipped a coke, and stared off into the distance and Mynameisdavid wore my sunglasses and hollered and whistled at every girl between 11 and 35 who walked by, we ate some very dry but flavorful beef, rice, and beans. I would probably have liked it quite a bit, if not for the circumstances. We ate slowly, enduring the obvious impatience and uncomfort of our companions and the malevolent stares of our hosts, while sharing the looks of 2 prisoners resigned to prolonging their last meal as long as possible – ought to note that nobody ate the poisonous-looking pickled onions. At the end of it all, we reluctantly set aside our plates, paid, and got ready to left. I didn’t see it, but Sjoerd told me later that as we were walking out he saw the grandmother of the family crossing herself as we left – it really was that sketchy.

Leaving, my mind was going crazy – how can I change this situation? How can we get out of here without getting robbed or shot? Why in the fuck did I bring my laptop? Is this going to end up being my regrettable adventure? How do I even write this story? All of this was rolling through my head as we headed back toward the highway, and as I searched desperately for a way out. My chance came suddenly, and I have my Peace Corps teachers to thank for my quick reaction. We walked along the main road into town, 4 lanes wide, busy like Sjoerd’s mouth on free blowjob day. There appeared a gap all of a sudden, a few seconds wide at best, between the oncoming traffic, and we took it. I looked at Sjoerd, he looked at me, and we stepped quickly across the street to the center median – it worked partially – Vlad, who had been ahead of us, was caught unaware and left stranded on the far side of the road. Unfortunately Mynameisdavid had seen our move and followed us, and was trying frantically to signal at Vlad, who kept walking down the sidewalk without noticing what had happened behind him. About now was when Mynameisdavid began to get more explicit – first telling us that we owed them a gift for their company, then after I declined that, that we would regret not giving them what they wanted. “Remember what we did for you?” he kept asking, “We know strong people. You don’t want us to get them.”

I was very much in agreement with that statement – I didn’t want him to get anyone, nor did I want to spend much more time with Mynameisdavid. Sjoerd and I started talking in English about this point, about how we really hoped that a bus would pass already. I kept stealing glances over at Vlad, telling Mynameisdavid that no, I would not pay him even 50 Cordobas apiece for their company, and walking rapidly toward the highway. I’m honestly not sure what Sjoerd was doing at this point – my attention was elsewhere, the heady adrenaline rush of imminent danger pounded in my temples, and all I know is that he was beside me and in no worse (or better) situation then I. We shared a few looks as we walked – we wer both scared, but determined to not give in to a pair of petty blackmailers, especially when one of them was across a very busy, very wide road and the other was a foot shorter then I. Then a couple things happened at once: first, in what I would quickly list as among the most awful moments of my life, I caught Vlad out of the corner of my eye finally notice that we weren’t behind him and run to the road’s edge. The second more then made up for it however, because the next thing that happened was that a bus finally showed up behind us. “Sjoerd, there’s our ride!” I yelled over Mynameisdavid’s whistling, 4 lanes of cars rumbling and honking, and the sounds of the busy city. We stopped at the road’s edge, reversed directions, and waved like idiots at the approaching bus. Vlad, now realizing what we were about to pull, dodged out into traffic, but only made it one lane before narrowly avoiding getting his ass ran over by a bus – he was stuck between the dense-but-fast traffic, and I smirked a little – this might actually work out!

We jumped up onto the bus before it had stopped moving, and the driver pushed back out into traffic. I heard Mynameisdavid yelling and whistling, but he didn’t climb into the bus, for whatever reason – perhaps he couldn’t pay the fare, or maybe it had become too public a scene for him. Regardless, we’d made it, at least partly. There was always the chance that Vlad and his friends would follow us in a car, catch up to us, and beat us senseless or shoot our gringo asses – thoughts like this wove their way into my brain until I couldn’t shake them loose – Sjoerd’s too I imagine, because we both sat facing the aisle, packs still on, ready to bolt if need be. Still, as we rode down the main road out of town, it started to dawn on us that we’d dodged that particular bullet, and that we’d be safe to make bad decisions another day. Hit the highway, paid our fare, and hopped out – only one last thing to do. We needed a ride and fast, and so it was thumbs out at a brisk walk, and we headed south toward León. I kept looking into the cars that passed, expecting to see a huge muscled guy with pigtails any second, but nobody fit the description.

A few minutes on, a grey Toyota pickup passed us, then 50 meters down the road braked and swerved over. Sjoerd and I looked at each other – well, is it them? – passed unspoken. We shrugged, ran down toward the truck. The adrenaline began seeping out again, the heady rush overpowering. I skidded to a stop at the blackout-tinted driver’s window, which wasn’t rolled down. Fuck, it’s them! – No, it wasn’t, just a kindly male face, wrinkled around the eyes from a lifetime smiling, and his similar-age wife beside him. I asked if we could get a ride to León, they offered us one gladly, and off we went – suck it drug pushers, we’re gone! Wind in our hair, packs in a pile, we finally started to loosen up, laugh even.

“What a ridiculous, insane, idiotic adventure that was!”

“Can you believe what we just did?”

“God, I thought they were going to jump us!”

“Why didn’t we just leave?”

“Man, good thing we got them high – that could have sucked if they had reacted properly.”

“Yeah, that was a good practice run, with bad criminals instead of good ones.”

“Lets be more careful next time.”

“Agreed.”

And onward we drove, sun slowly setting, road unwinding before and behind, volcanoes in the distance, and Chichigalpa fading into the distance. I still don’t know if the name is really Chichigalpa, but I do know one thing – we aren’t allowed back there, Sjoerd and I. We burned that bridge to the ground the second we went in, bought drugs, and fucked over the pusher – our name is mud with all the wrong sorts of people. No matter, we learned a bit about ourselves, our ability to cope with bad situations, and came out alright and more knowledgeable. Experience, some say, comes from having made bad decisions in the past and learned from them. If that’s the case, I’ve gotten a whole lot of experience from this little adventure. The moral? What moral? I was doing something illegal, dealing with shady people, and made a whole lot of bad decisions followed by a few choice good ones. Keep your head on straight and your eyes open might be one. Don’t buy pot in Nicaragua might be another. It all depends on your point of view and what you’re aiming to do. Take this story as you may, and may it help you out someday.

Vemos! -k