Who Shot Thelma & Louise or how I learned to stop worrying and love the Atomic Bomb

Relationships are difficult. That´s why we kill for the insurance money. But I lost all my money on that infomercial investment. I had no choice. You must believe me.

Life as a single person requires no compromises. No sacrifices. No arguments. And some might add…..No companionship. But that´s why the Lord Almighty gave us two hands and deregulated Cable.

When a person sans compromising companionship travels solo the rewards are many…..countless invitations to strangers homes (due to your perceived loneliness?) where you are free to eat the organs of endangered species without your partner exhibiting severe signs of nausea and disdain for your barbaric hosts. Gross. These people are gross. I AM LEAVING. An independent party can easily choose a night´s lodging without the vocal accompaniment of bedspread criticism and faulty tile grouting. And perhaps, most liberating, more then a pair of pampers, after a night of bad fish, on a 21 hour dirt road bus ride, would be……the freedom to wander, in search of the weird, wonderful, & wacky without the constant chants of , ¨Can´t we go to that store, I want to stop over there, I don’t like this neighborhood, I understand local traditions, but I still don´t think he should be putting his finger there. Its hurts goddamnit. Are you listening to me, you selfish bastard?¨

Naturally, I was a bit concerned when a good friend asked to join me for a portion of the current South American Adventure, never to be seen in a theatre near you. Despite his being cloaked of the same gender, relationships are relationships.

But what would we do? Would I be totally removed from local culture, spending countless hours chatting with my fellow gringo, while opportunity after opportunity passed me by due to my reluctance to leave the non-spanish speaking compatriot stranded? Would I be railroaded into staying in faux Marriott style hotelpenitentiaries that promised a complete removal of character in exchange for a wonderfully bland sterile air conditioned environment and an Incan bellhop named Jake. Well, I consoled myself with the fact that the incredibly appreciative & rewarding American employment system only allowed its servants a maximum of two weeks holiday. Uh…that may be an exaggeration. I think after at least 10, or maybe fifteen years, an employee may receive an extra week holiday. And a promotional certificate to Magic Kingdom with a coupon for half off your second purchase of an 84 oz. Mickey CocaCola Cup. Fuck, Mickey´s made it this long, with all those lecherous bastards yanking at his tail, and molesting his Minnie. I could make it 12 days. Right?

I met George at the Lima airport. 6 a.m. And a typical gray Peruvian sky welcomed his arrival.

Hey.
Hey.
Your no longer George. You are Jorge. When people ask your name, don´t ever say George. Got it, Jorge.
Are fuckin´nuts? My name is George, dude. I´m sure they can say George. Geoooorge.
I know you’re a white American. But trust me, the people have more respect when you give them a Spanish name. Think about it. Would you rather bitch about your system being down to your Indian tech guy by calling up and saying, ¨yo, Hajmantabali, my computer just crashed¨ or ¨yo, Bob, can you fix my damn computer?¨

Jorge soon learned to enjoy his new identity. Once, I swear, I saw him practicing the pronunciation while he brushed his teeth.

My fears were soon allayed. Jorge would not be a hindrance. He would actually motivate me. As if I was deputized some kind of Caucasian ambassador for the great land of Peru, I immediately displayed the hospitality of the locals.

She was a stunning, full-bodied (that is to say, she hadn’t read Cosmo´s groundbreaking story from this month´s issue, 10 ways to stay Thin. The Waif is back in.) brunette with a chest enlargement to satisfy the most persnickety of Boob men. Jorge was head of the Boob men at his local Lion´s Club.

Dude. I don’t get it. Is she some kind of hooker? She´s just going to leave the airport with us, and spend the day, hanging out, like she´s our buddy.

Yep. People are genuine here. You’ve got to trust. Its probably just a good opportunity for her to guide some strangers and share her culture.

You’re an idiot. Watch your wallet. And don’t say I didn’t tell you so.

Her name was Lolita. Really, Lolita of the jungle. We met her in the airport terminal of our first destination, a small, but hectic city bordering the Peruvian Amazon. She soon learned that Jorge refused to stay in a place without air conditioning. We were finally recommended to the only place in town with refrigeration. A perfect example of a hotelpenitentary.

Fuck you. Ok. Its 20 degrees in Chicago. I don´t care if people here open their windows. Its hot. You think these monkeys wouldn’t die if they landed in O´hare. You´ll be thanking me by the morning.

Lolita spent almost 2 days with her Gringo masters. Mostly it was a translation fest. Jorge would pepper me with questions to ask our Amazonian Lolita. One such occasion took place in the town square, the Plaza de Armas, where families and young couples gathered to enjoy the sounds of harmonically challenged musicians.

Ask her if She believes in Christ.

No way man. It’s a catholic country. That’s like asking a guy from Texas if he believes in Bush.

Just ask her.

Do you believe in Jesus?

Yes, but of course.

I told you, jackass.

Ask her, if she knows that he´s a false prophet.
Are you crazy? These people will lynch me. Go learn Spanish and then you can tell her.
Ok. Just ask her why she believes in God.

Jorge believes in God, don’t you think its important to believe in one God?

Yes. Yes, I do.

So. What did she say.

She has no problem with extramarital sex.

At the time, I didn’t realize that a vacation of blasphemy was about to begin.

Later that evening, Jorge retreated early to our Freon den of Blandness.
And I got to know our little Lolita better. Not like that, though.
She talked about her clothes business. Apparently, she bought fabrics in Lima, and had them designed into clothes, that she sold in smaller cities throughout Peru. She was a new breed of Peruvian woman. Independent, and in complete opposition to the early marriage values that surrounded her. Actually, she seemed like a poor Peruvian Oprah. She had a dynasty of incredibly unsuccessful businesses. A rice and corn trader. A re-seller of books. A part-time television host. And her most recent pursuit….guinea pig farmer. This beautiful jungle empresario had a dream to raise guinea pigs. And then sell them around the country. Granted, guinea pig is a delicacy her, and quite valuable. But its hard to picture an undiscovered cover girl covered by a swarm of Richard Gere´s favorite rectal treat.

My self-invitation for an ensuite late night cup of tea was denied.

A fuckin´guinea pig farmer. Dude, your kidding me, right? That hot chick is not farming guinea pigs.

I swear. And by the way, they are not called guinea pigs, but referred to by their indigenous name, Cuy. Pronounced like Kweeph. Minus the ¨ph¨.

Why would they name their prized meat after the female fart?

Uh..I don’t think the forbearers of their language knew English.

So, our girl, is farming flatulent guinea pigs.

Kwee became our code word for fart on the local bus. Apparently, based on recent observation, there are some serious digestive problems in Peru. And as impossible as solving PI, one did not ride public transport without falling prey to the KWEE. A smell so pungent, that even locals rushed to lower the windows.

Did you Kwee?
That was not me. It was the women in the striped poncho.

They´re all wearing striped ponchos. Its like a Gap ad for Andean people.

Well, it wasn’t me.

Lolita would become a recurring theme in our trip, but she was forced to return to her hometown, where she had some municipal bribing to take care of. Apparently, opening a guinea pig farm was not taken lightly in these parts.

With his first authentic encounter completed, Jorge was ready to fully steep himself in local culture.

Where´s the drugs? Where is all this great Amazon shit I hear about?

Like the Ayahuasca. You want to try the Ayahuasca.

Get it for me. Whatever. Let´s do it.

The theme of our adventure had now been set. Drugs, Blasphemy, & Foul Air excreting Guinea Pigs.

The taste of vomit and memories of mosquito ravaged sphincter were still fresh memories. Too fresh. I was a bit reluctant about partaking in another Ayahuasca experience. But, I felt it was my duty as newly appointed ambassador to share the mystical jungle vine with my friend. The newly evolved Jorge.

Our search for a shaman was met by skepticism. From me. After having experienced a genuine shaman in the middle of the jungle, I could not possibly except some small city imitation.

Ayahuasca is not a drug you take and go out clubbing. Its meant to be done in a ceremonial setting where the shaman, or guide, leads you on a journey through ritual and music so that you can discover truths about yourself or the world through hallucinatory meditation. Or something like that.

Her name was Jesús. My first female Jesús. What would the archdiocese think? I liked her from the start. One of those people that are so sweet, warm and genuine, you feel your big brother protective mode kick in immediately. Very strange, considering I never protected my little sister. But Jesüs….well, for christsake, we were in the company of Jesus.

We were told that our ¨ceremony¨ would take place in a specially designed retreat center, where we would be able to sink into a meditative state with ease. Jesus and her diminutive partner, Hernán would be our hosts. They were not jungle shamans, but had trained with the very best, and we would be in good hands. It´s like they read some sort of Business School Marketing strategy book.

We arrived at 9pm. We were told to not come earlier. Now we understood why. Our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ was an impoverished Peruvian Melrose Place. On Wednesday´s at 9. A courtyard of grubby one room studios surrounded a large rectangular dirt courtyard covered in a strangulating maze of undulating clotheslines. We assumed that the local building office had yet to approve their plans for a swimming pool and Tiki bar. As the neighbors socialized in the open-air, we were shown the rear of the complex. Was this how David Koresh started? A tin roof hung perilously on four crooked wooden posts. On the red dirt, several straw mats were spread around. Several chickens roamed freely over our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ Two stray dogs would chase the chickens around. And for education purposes, an enormous ayahuasca vine, producer of the much sought after magic, was planted in plain view of the seating chambers.

Dude. No way. No way. I am not tripping outside somebody´s apartment. Did you see the chickens? Did you? This is crazy. Let´s go.

Look. I know it may seem odd (and it was certainly, ODD), but we have got to go with the flow. No matter what, it will be an experience.

I tried reassuring Jorge out of my own insecurity. This place was bizarre. And did these people realize that their friendly neighbor was sending Gringos on drug altering trips in their backyard?

We took our seats under the shanty awning, and our gracious hosts passed us empty buckets.

Por Vomitar.

I understood that. We´re suppose to sit here, with the chickens, the dogs, and the neighbors, and just start barfing. This is fuckin´ crazy.

Well, at least the neighbors know the puke is being taken care of.

Assuming the universal position for the uncoordinated Buddha, we downed our foul, tobacco kwee tasting medicine, and awaited our journey.

The rhythms began softly. Just a few notes from the flauta, the five pronged native flute. And then a couple of howl out of the 3 foot long didgeridoo, an ancient tribal wind instrument. Our eyes were closed. No Peeking. (no duck either, just chickens). And slowly, we drifted off into another universe, where, tribal melodies guided our visions. Our hosts would take turns, singing songs that can only be described as Angelic. Voices so rich with feeling, that you honestly felt as if heaven really did exist. Apparently, blasphemous thoughts had been suspended. Not exterminated.

Lolita came to visit me. A simple pat on the head, but she was present. And lots of children. In non sensual poses, just smiling and staring at me. Eventually, the vines started growing. Visions full of extenuating vines, never threatening, just encompassing. Groups of people on small gondola type boats, in a slightly carnivalesque atmosphere, would come gliding by accompanied the mystical chants that seemed to emanate from the vines, themselves. And the plants kept talking, singing really. It was all quite lovely. But what the fuck was happening in the real world. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer.

I´m still not sure if I made a mistake. Never open your eyes, they tell you. Within minutes, an incredibly short, indigenous man appeared right before me. Bobbing up and down like a doll, he kept smirking and began to mock the barfing that was a common ritual in this experience. He then continued dancing in a very care-free way. I wanted to dance with him. Maybe introduce him to my parents. But I was concerned about Customs. How would I declare this creature? And how much should I say he cost? Sir. Where did you find this little man? On my ayahuasca trip. He was just standing there, so I put him in my backpack. This is your brain on drugs.

Jorge had apparently been turned into larvae and watched himself metamorphosize into a butterfly. But Lolita never dropped by to say hello.

We were out of trance now, our musicians having the life sucked from them.

We´re in a manger. Dude, this is genious. These people are fuckin´gods. They stuck us in a manger.

What´s a manger? And how do you spell that?

Your such a Jew. Manger, you know, nativity scene on suburban front lawns. Mary, Jesus, Saints, the whole gang. This shelter is the manger. And the animals. And fuck, dude, her name is Jesus. Don´t you get it?

It did appear as if we´d been transported to some desert oasis, and yes, I did agree, our noveau shamans had some type of magical voice. But he was right. I was just some stupid Jesus killing Jew. If he only equated the scene to an ancient marketplace with our hosts as nomadic merchants, then perhaps the little jewboy could transgress.

Jorge was hooked. He wanted more natural Peruvian substances. Cocaine. Well, that’s actually processed, so we opted the original Coke. Preservative free. The much maligned Coca leaf.

Interlude. We are not drug addicts. We are not the people who need to get drunk every night or stay stoned all day. Granted, we were not big fans of Nancy Reagan but that’s simply because of her poor taste in dress. All that Red. A bit dramatic, don´t you think? Most Peruvians refrain (disdain, actually) from all drugs, and can´t understand why America buys so much of it. They have seen Miami Vice, and for some reason, they still think Crockett & Tubbs were dealers. We were simply two foreigners looking to find significance in local herbs. And, well, I guess, get a bit fucked up while we were at it. Bathroom break is over.

Lacking the time or interest to see the famed ruins of Machu Picchu, Jorge decided on visiting a lesser known, more dramatic, pre-Incan city. With Coca, of course. It was long mountainous climb to the 11,000 foot ruin site. We were joined by a typically anal retentive German, who donned an unkempt beard and a medusa mane of permed Bavarian curls. Our other guest was a young, blue eyed, idealistic Finn. We assumed his ideal was to spend his day drinking vodka, wondering when the world would stop confusing Finland with the bastard Swedes. Our two EuroUnion guests agreed to spilt some Coca with us. And the guide simply laughed at us. But since most mountain dwelling indigenous people chew the Coca leaf to help provide stimulation in the high altitude draining environment of their laborious farm work (which probably consists of harvesting more coca), the much adored leaf was widely available. So like getting hot dogs from a 50´s style drive-thru, we pulled up in the three shop town, and the toothless storekeeper brought to our window a small garbage bag full of coca leafs.

Dude. Is this enough, or should we get more. Its only a buck for the whole thing.

In da willage, dez is normal. Ve no need more. You trust me, ok.

Yah. We drink vodka too. Its better. Really. Ask the locals.

If we chop the leaf up real small, can we snort it?

The four foreign stooges tramped up the mountainside, mouths full of bitter tasting green leaves.

You fucked up, yet. I don’t feel anything.

Ya do not get fahcked up. Only make you mah clear.

Thanks, Hans. But we´re trying to get fucked up. Like the locals.

Its Heinreich,not Hans. And how many times I tell you…dey don’t get fahcked. Have respect.

You know. In the Finland, we don’t have such thing. I like it. Not like to drink vodka. But I like.

And so the asinine conversation continued. We barely dented the one kilo bag, before Jorge and I agreed, through green stained teeth, that the only reason these people chew so much of this crap was because they couldn’t get afford their own byproduct. They were probably hoping we´d give them some of our own Peruvian Flake.

Really, why are Germans so fastidiously anal. Mr. Liederhosen spent the entire trip wandering through the ruined city arguing with our guide over the percentage of lime used to cure the concrete. He just didn’t understand the tourguide´s proportions. And I thought Americans had issues. No wonder their cars run so smooth and their gas showers are so functional.

Having been relegated to a 1-1 record on our drug procurements, we developed a new fondness for the original inhabitants of this ruined fortress city, known as Kuélap. According to our incredibly jovial young guide, the original inhabitants were descended from Vikings. And honest to the local Rain God, there is a town in northeastern Peru (whose name will not be disclosed in order to prevent its pillaging by the migratory group of tourists, known as sex tourists) that has remained sequestered from the Incan and Spanish bloodline. That´s right, imagine hot Swedish women speaking Spanish and conveying that salsa attitude. An entire region of tall, blue eyed blond hair residents.
Our Finnish friend seemed to doubt this.

I don’t think my people would come here to live. No. They wouldn’t.

The Vikings were from Norway. Your descended from an unwanted batch of Mongolian and Russian sperm.

Vat? Vat you say?

Germans had old cities like dis one, too. Have you know the Teutonics?

You know the ancient city of Auschwitz?

Globalization had reared its head in the remote Andes. But where were those telenovela speaking Vikings?

Traveling across these mint candied labeled mountains requires time, patience, and more patience. Things Jorge was severely lacking.

Dude. Uh. I am not riding in that thing for 18 hours. We can barely fit in there.

(2 hours later)

Dude. Are you kidding me. Did you see how far down that was. Its gotta be a 3000 foot drop and this mini bus is all over the place.(3 hours later)

Kwee. Somebodied Kweed. I know you smell that.(15 minutes later)

Jesus fuckin Christ. What died. Somebody keeps Kweeing.(35 minutes later)

Get me out of here. The smell of Kwee. This road. This is insane. How do you do this all the time?

(about 8 hours into the trip)

What the fuck. We are not going across that. There is no way Im crossing that. Get me back.


A landslide had just buried the road. And in a scene that would have driven most Americans into a cellphone dialing seizure, the locals simply laughed it off and took turns digging out the mound of rock that had inundated the ¨highway¨, our half lane dirt road clinging to mountain cliffs, forcing uncontrollable motion sickness vomit from the elderly indigenous women who were our kweeing co-riders.

21 hours later, Jorge arrived, and seemed to be a new man. Telling anyone that would listen about his death defying ride across the grueling, unforgiving, paralyzing, not crossed sinced Incan times, Andean mountain pass.
But the relationship had only grown. Maybe it was our honey moon phase. But we laughed at absolutely everything. Nothing escaped our giggling sophomoric attitude.

So with drugs and guineas on hiatus, we reverted back to the holy spirit. A mutual friend of ours claimed lineage from the yet, another remote, mountain town that the arduous journey had delivered us to. She was a Sephardic Jew, and this small town was apparently full of them.

Three hours of intense investigation led to the following:

People with paintings and statues of Jesus hanging over their storefront windows don’t like to talk about Jews. They never existed and no one here has ever heard of them. Our friend is a liar, and we are welcome to attend mass at 7 o´clock.

We thought we finally hit paydirt. What is paydirt, anyway? An overly accommodating man sent us to the local synagogue. He promised we would find our bit of history inside. Well, our friendly fellow seemed confused. The Church of Israelites were not Jews. But we did get some lovely Jehovah´s calendars.

Time for more drugs. What was left, on the natural circuit of dosing? San Pedro, the patron saint of Texas. We had both heard of this jungle derived herb, that apparently had its own psychedelic affects. Jorge knew of a certain friend back home, the Prada Hippie he claimed, the kind of girl that makes the average Chinese stir-fry sound like it was descended from Ming, himself, and tasted so outrageously delicious that even Chung Fat could not have created such a delicacy. This respected purveyor of the overly exaggerated truth was our source for the San Pedro.

She said it blew her mind away, and was so intense, she didn’t know where she was.

She also thinks her Yoga teacher can levitate.

Lets do it anyway.

Apothecaries, they call them. Druggists before Johnson & Johnson sent out scantily dressed women with Recreation degrees from SouthwestEastern Missouri State to push their products on the local medic. We needed the local apothecary, whose shop was overrun by a stack of discarded garden twigs & funny smelling leaves. He needed an hour to mix our potion.

Dude. It looks like urine. And its warm. Are you sure we should drink this?

We´ll drink it tomorrow. Let it cool down.

But if we want to get off, maybe we should drink it now.

So your grossed out that it may be a bottle of piss, but your so desperate to get high, that you´d drink it.

Aren´t you?

Yeah, your right. Piss it ain´t so bad. The Prime Minister of India used to drink it. And now look at their economy.

But maybe that´s why its so fuckin hard to understand when I call my credit card company. They all have a mouth full of pee.

We waited two days. Cause in the end, we weren’t that desperate.

Our next Peruvian mountain city had a bizarre natural landscape that hovered on it´s outskirts. Giant 300 foot rock faces hugged to the sides of steep hills, kind of like fusing Easter Island statues with Stonehenge. A little papau wau wau with your shepherd´s pie. This mystical setting would be a good place to pay homage to San Pedro, patron saint of Peter the pissboy. And like all bizarre places in Peru, some ancient tribe had lived there. Maybe San Pedro would bring them back to visit us.

After disclosing our intentions to our guide, he fled, staying a minimum of 100 yards in front of us. But it´s natural,man. These guys don´t like any drugs. Just fry up some guinea pig and they´ll be happy.

So the two gringos carried their matching recycled soda bottles of possible urine, slowly sipping, as they awaited the rocks to begin their chanting. And the more we seemed to drink, the further away our guide went. Each time we passed a solitary boulder, an Incan smurf would pop out, offering us a wool pancho.

Dude, did you see that. Who were those people?. This shit is strong.

No. We´re sober. Drinking some foul tasting mystery juice, and those people live here. They´re native. They want money. And whatever you do, don´t call them ¨little people¨

An hour went by, and no hallucinations. All that sewer tasting liquid for nothing. But my head did feel tingly. And the body kind of light.

You feel anything?

Dude. I feel like I´m on fuckin´ X. I´m so goddamn horny. This is sick.

Maybe you should go behind the rocks and stoop a little old Inca lady.

Im serious, dude. This is ecstasy. I´m going off.

Shortly after our illuminating conversation, I realized Jorge was right. We had drank some kind of herbal ecstasy and instead of transporting ourselves back to pre-Incan times, we were two horny guys looking for anything that would breathe. So much for singing Rocks and talking mountaintops.

You want a massage. I´ll give you one, then you massage me.

Get the fuck out of here. This is serious. Im going off.

As Jorge drowned himself in a trance of fawning concubines, I came up with a plan.
There were thermal baths nearby. We would go lounge in the healing baths, again, a relic of some Incan history, and then luxuriate to a massage. Not by me, but by the Incan goddesses they would employ to pamper the San Pedro infested gringos. A new tourism campaign. A lanky white man drinking a urine colored beverage while being shoulder massaged by a sultry Incan princess. Come to Peru. San Pedro is waiting.(this message is brought to you by the Peruvian Tourism Board, and we take no responsibility for any adverse reactions people may have to our ancient Incan urine. Please recycle)

As we gyrated ourselves in the Incan baths, which were really used American whirlpools with sulfur smelling water and poor grout jobs, we imagined our awaiting decadent massage. Who was she? Maybe there was two? Could we pay extra for the Special?

He looked like Henry Winkler. An older version, but unmistakably, Henry Winkler. He had relocated to northern Peru, to massage SanPedroing tourists as part of a new Peruvian Tourism Board campaign.

Did you ask Fonz for the Special?

Fuck you.

Time to follow Nancy´s advice. We were done. We were saying no. What was Lolita up to?

I had emailed her to invite her to meet us during our trip, even offering to help with the expenses. She never responded. Not once. And Jorge, he had 4 emails in less then a week. He didn´t speak a word of English. Insulted her religious beliefs, and even mentioned that he was married.

Apparently, she had misunderstood my heretical questioning and sent Jorge two ¨Jesoid¨ e-cards with Corinthian quotes. He was her ¨pretty eyed¨man, and I was simply the guinea pig to lure the real meat.

Jorge was now rhapsodizing about his opportunity to give up corporate life and move to Peru, where he and biblical Lolita would raise the Kwee, and maybe run an ayahuasca center on the side. On the side. This was insane but she had him hooked. Then again, a wooden pole, with fleshy breasts, would cause him to kneel down and prostrate uncontrollably.

Maybe this whole Lolita the guinea pig farmer and her mute American love were a running commentary on certain facets of our culture. Was life so monotonous and dull in the states, that a fairly intelligent man would give up his secure life to run a guinea pig farm? Would he name is first pig after me, the matchmaker? Or reaching beyond America, were certain people so drained of their local women´s quirks that anything outside the borders presented an exotic eroticism? No. I think this analogy touches deeper into the concept of the unknown. Mystery.

As humans, we seem to want to project our hopes, our desires, onto those things which we can not understand. Including. Those things, those people or animals or objects that we are unable to communicate with. God must be a loving, caring soul who wants to reward us for all the good that we do. The rain surely must want to fall to provide us with food and bring us life so that we can survive and prosper. Our dog is a saint. He (or she, but can´t the feminists cut some slack, just this once) loves us, he needs us. He thinks we are the best.

OR, maybe the dog has got no other place to go. He realizes we are hypocritical, insincere, and sloppy purveyors of meatloaf. He doesn´t forgive us. He doesn’t even love us. He just wants a bed and some food, so he uses us. We imagine the rest.

Jorge was Lolita´s pet dog. By not speaking her language, he could embody all those things that Peruvian men were unable to provide. He was her San Jorge. Me. Just another perverted foreigner that she had no use for. Wait until the local Chairmen of Boob Studies learns the local dialect. Perhaps, that´s how so many sects of the same religion grew. Sunnis & Shiites, Baptists, Lutherans, & Anglicans. Hindus & Sikhs. They weren’t prospering under one system. The crops weren’t as yielding as they hoped. They´re homes were not quite big enough. They´re women would´t play doggie. Maybe that new guy could provide it.

Celebrating Jorge´s penpal, we decided a disco was in order. We weren´t big fans of the club scene, or for that matter bad Latin pop music, but we figured we should lay off the local medicine for a few nights. In accordance with our religious curiosity, the dancing establishment was properly named, El Diablo. As if dictated by some omnipresent DiscoClub doctrine, the place was full of small circles of dancing girls surrounded by large circles of ogling men. In a matter of minutes, we realized our mistake. So, we ordered more beers, and joined the throngs of ogling men.

The following day, on our way to the bus station, I asked our driver if he as familiar with El Diablo. The translation follows:

Have you heard of The Devil?
Yes. Of course.
We visited The Devil last night?
Really.
Yeah. Have you visited the Devil?
No.
Do you know the Devil?
What?
Do you know THE DEVIL?
Yes. Well, no. No.
Don’t. go. The Devil sucks. Really. We don´t like The Devil.
Good. Good. Thank you.. God be with you.

It was only after the conversation that I noticed the postcard of Mary´s son, glued to his dashboard. Were we prophets, or disciples?

More translatory fun awaited us. Long distance bus journeys were prone to showing dubbed American movies. But sometimes, they kept the original language, English, and subtitled in Spanish. The significance of this rather banal topic is that many people profess to learning English through subtitled movies. Really, go ask your local busboy.

So we spent a bus ride figuring out how a perverted Spanish boy could learn English from subtitled porn movies.

A Peruvian immigrant walks into a convenience store in Chicago.

I am here to fix your cable.

We don’t need our cable fixed.

But you know you want it.

We don’t want it.

Yeeah, yeah, you want it bitch.

Excuse me. Who you call a bitch. You come here, you bitch.

No. I come on you. Wait. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

I call the police. You leave.

Yes. Yes. I am coming.

No. you are leaving.

I am coming.

You are leaving.

I am here to fix your cable.

It’s a new instructional video put out by The United Federation of Erotic Movie Producers to show the Republican party that they are serious about responsible immigration. Go Big Red.

A few days had passed since the last herbal anointment ceremony, and Jorge wanted another try.

Dude. Fuck this jungle crap. Just find us some weed.

Im not buying weed off the street. You know how long you go to jail for?

Oh, but you bought San Pedro escstasy crap. You bought coca. C´mon.

That stuff was legal.

Beachtown, Peru. Or beachtown anywhere. Why are all beach towns, regardless of national borders, full of cheap t-shirt shops, sleazy motels, and bums. Who ordained that one? Really, what Peruvian realized that people at the beach want 3 t-shirts for 10 bucks that exclaim what women look like after you drank a 6 pack. Followed by the name of the said beachtown. Well, one thing beachtowns do have is a plethora of dope pushers. I guess when you apply for your beachtown license, you are permitted an allotted number of scumbag street pushers. And somebody must be giving them dialect lessons, cause the following example can be found on the beaches of Africa, Asian, and the Mid-East.

His body was covered in tattoos. He worn a backward baseball cap and an unbuttoned baseball jersey. I think it was the Brewers. Underneath he wore a classic tight fitting ¨wife-beater¨ tank top.

Yo bro. Yo bro. I got some good shit. You want a dime. I got a dime, right here, bro.

Where did you learn your English?

Motherfucker, you want a bag or not. Why you care where I learn my English?

But really, how did you learn those words?

Man, from the street, bro. Im from the hood.

Where did you live.? Chicago. New York. Milwaukee.

Man, you stupid. I never been the states. How some punk ass like me going to get to the states. I from Lima, bro. And yeah, I watch me some dope American movies too.

Time was running out on the dueling gringo adventure. Jorge really wanted one last dip in the hallucinogenic thermal fonzy bath. I couldn’t deal with ordinary pot. Being a delegate of the Peruvian Tourism Board, it was my duty to utilize indigenous plants.

I had bought some green leaf rolled tobacco in the market. The saleslady promised me that the green leaf helped to bring on the visions. I told her the San Pedro salesman told me the same thing. She said I should only use that stuff with my wife. Little late for that.

That evening, in the solitude of our courtyard motel room, with the meows of caged cats (Our neighbors eat them, so they stay caged, our proprietor informed us) singing in the background, I found peace. And I hadn’t even smoked. I can´t believe how naïve I had been all these years. Philisophical texts. Meditations. Gurus. Hallucinatory drugs. Nonsense. True focus. True clearing of the mind was attainable through joint rolling.

An absolute art form. Forsaken by most folks in the West for the quick high of the Bong, or the creatively named, one-hitter. These were all false prophets. It was through a Zen like concentration, that one could attempt, since perfection was impossible, to create a hand rolled smoking contraption that conveyed upon its beholder the feeling of cradling some exquisitely crafted antique Incan pottery jar. My meditative ears were immune to impatient Jorge´s whining. Each shard of grass was carefully sprinkled in the jaws of the waiting paper. The magical jungle leaves were delicately placed within the narrow confines of the ganja sativa. Every roll of the cannabis sarcophagus was a lesson in patience, as one slight twitch would send the entrancing concoction to the dirty floor below. Why haven´t the Rastas, the Global Prophets of Copious Pot Inhalation, opened up a convent, The Peter Tosh, Paul, & Mary Jane School of Ganja Joint Rolling. Rasta Monks would isolate themselves in beachside caves, fixated on turning the perfect marijuana cigarette. And maybe some chocolate to munch on.

The Peruvians are so drug averse, that they have Bob Marley posters in practically every bar in the country. But almost no one, outside the capital city, dares to smoke it.

Hey Republicans, more family values. Incans for Congress.

We never did figure out what the little green leaves did to our hooch. We were stoned. We kept noticing a small shanty terrace protruding from the giant rock mounds that hovered over the beach. So, we visited a nearly homeless man who actually made a home for himself below that terrace. A natural piece of home construction. In his earthen hovel, surrounded by tourist refuse, sat a Forbes magazine. Its cover read, in English, 400 Richest People in the World. I wonder how they found him.

The relationship had certainly peaked. Two friends were exploiting every bit of humor possible from the unsuspecting locals. It was quite different from my normal, solitary explorations, which seemed more culturally heavy, then comedic. Our final days were spent back on the religious side.

Jorge has a bizarre obsession with churches. He has to see every Church, and in Catholic Latin America they are as plentiful as suburban Applebees. It’s a bizarre obsession because he doesn’t want to pray. He doesn’t want to admire the Holy Spirit, or absolve his multitude of sins. He simply wants to find the freaky shit, as he says.

You know, Jesus draped in black with specters coming out of his body. Crap like that.

So our final days were spent Colonial church hopping, hypothesizing how Mary really got pregnant. God borrowed some sperm and put it on a vibrator. He assured her this would maintain her virginity. Mary was a lesbian and was unable to get pregnant without a donor. She asked both Luke and Mark to donate, so neither would know who was the real father. Jesus was the product of a young Israelite couple´s burning lust. Embarassed by their offspring, they left it for the frigid old lady on the hill who would nobody would sleep with. They figured it was her only chance for a kid.

And so it went. A holiday that any Tourism Board would love to put into pretty little glossy brochures. That unsuspecting people pick up. Like a bottle of San Pedro, and get lulled into a false sense of exotic adventure.

I learned something. Maybe something that every relationship needs. And maybe something that a solo lifestyle can never provide…..Humor is a necessary ingredient. Without laughter, life is misery, or at best, just plain dull. And sure, you can always find humor on your own. But …but, when you have someone to share that with, the humor only grows, and grows until you actually forget that there are things in this world that bother you. There are things in your life that bother you. Drugs aren’t really the answer. Nor is religion. Or guinea pigs. Although all those things make a good canvas to laugh on. Maybe we don’t even need intimacy in the long run. It’s a partner who can sustain the comedy, the comedy that is life. Maybe this will revolutionize the online dating world. SingleBlackWhitePuertoRicanBurmeseMaleFemale looking for someone I can spend my life cracking up at the absurd shit us humans do. But I do warn you, eventually I´ll have to get laid. Then, I´ll come home and we can laugh about it.

Making Friends, MANO to MANO

Foreigners always seem held to a different set of standards. The local population assumes the person with the different language, the different skin coating, the different body odor --- they figure this person is an idiot. Or naive. Ignorant, perhaps. This foreign entity just doesn´t get it. Especially, most especially, when the newcomer is trying to speak the native language.

So, when a Jordanian is walking down the teeming streets of New York City, and approaches a local female with the inquisitive, “Please, I ask you lady, I look to touch the boobs. You show me where I can find the boobs” ----the specified victim of the language barrier will simply chuckle and pass off the maligned question as an error in translation. However, if approached by a fellow paisano, whose perfectly dictated New York accent proclaimed, “Yo lady, You gotta nice rack. You, uh, mind if I give em a good squeeze” ---- this interrogative man would find his chubby bagel stuffed face imprinted with the backside of Ms. Boobie´s Hand. And maybe forced to endure a litany of vulgar degradations to the actual function of his manly centerpiece.

Being aware of the existence of such Culturally Accepted Mistranslations, I occasionally exploit the theory for the amusement of myself and those lucky enough to be located nearby.

The market was bustling with native women selling a variety of freshly picked produce. Other vendors were hawking a motley mix of chickens, rabbits, and the local favorite – the guinea pig. I had befriended a particular saleslady specializing in milk products. Her story centered around the cows that lived on her property and the long hours she put in to eventually create her cheeses and yogurts. Somewhere in the middle of her personal daily recap, I loudly proclaimed that she liked to “te gusta se paja la vaca”. The aisle of vendors responded swiftly --- the men broke out into uncontrollable laughter while the women simply stared at me with a curious mixture of disdain and pity. The milk byproduct hawker shook her head in disbelief, and gently raised her hands into the air, as to exclaim “just another silly gringo, who doesn´t know anything”. I had knowingly stated, “you like to jerk off the cow”.

It was during the ensuing crowd reactions that I noticed him. A non-descript (thus, he will receive no description) late thirty something man. He expressed neither amusement nor disgust. But adorned a brief smirk. It’s a smirk I would see again.

Breakfast is often a solitary time. A part of the day dedicated to one´s own awakening. A preparation for the day´s battle. A meditation on the misery of work. A General Mills flashback to the liberty of childhood. Lunch is sometimes sacrificed in adherence to modern work-slave principles. Other times the mid-day meal serves as rebellion to the enslavement of the office. In South America, lunch often acts as the Northern Hemisphere´s dinner. And the final meal, the celebration of another day survived, this course deserves company. A partner, or two, who can share stories of embarrassing Jordanians, and utter yanking Americans. Dinner often serves as the artistic showcase of food´s potential, and creates an environment to remind it´s participants that community remains an unbroken joy of the human experience.

So, basically, eating dinner alone SUCKS. And eating dinner in a restaurant alone, well, that really SUCKS. Traveling in foreign countries, having no access to kitchens, a solo traveler often finds that dinner can be a completely unrewarding experience when a partner is unavailable to share the lord´s feast.

On one such night, I found myself in a popular restaurant, full of laughing couples and raucous groups of friends. Alone. With a book to shield myself from the prying pity laden eyes of nosey tables. What´s wrong with that guy? I feel sorry for him.

The table next to me had two business partners who would cast occasional eyes on me. How did this white man find our local dining spot? Wanting to break free of my novel´s solitary confinement, I cast off a casual pick-up line, Do you guys eat here often? And within minutes I found myself part of a normal dinner party, learning the complexities of the computer import business. If that line would only work with random women, I could finally find my South American wife and open up our guinea pig farm.

And that´s when he passed by my table. The man with the golden smirk. He was a waiter at the restaurant. He barely stopped, but his stare was one of recognition. Did I know him before the market incident? Have I finally found my Guardian Angel?

Along the lines of the Dining Alone Dinner Theory (University of Chicago Press, 1957),there is a Going to A Bar Alone Theory (Florida State University, 1992) that casts extreme awkwardness on those who dare enter the social confines of a watering hole sans conversational partner. I wanted to wear a shirt that said, My previous bar partner just left me to go home to her husband, but I wasn’t ready for bed, so I came here for a nightcap. But the local silkscreener couldn’t fit it on my t-shirt. Even though it was the truth. I swear.

The Live Music sign sucked me in. I could always pass myself off as a music aficionado desiring some local tunes. According the Going to a Bar Alone Theory, this exception was tolerated. The bar was empty. I pulled up my stool, suffered denial of charming small talk from the frigid barkeep, and focused my attention on the group of young guys enthusiastically singing Latin songs on the nearby couches. They were good. So I sent over some beers. Soon after my charitable gesture, I was lounging amidst the next big band that no one has heard of. The intriguing part of the musical experience was that every member of the 6 person group could play guitar. They would each play a song on the guitar while the others clapped percussion beats on the wooden coffee table. And most of the songs were traditional songs from a variety of South American countries. Really rich, beautiful songs. I wish I could have sang along too. They knew every word. Eventually, when the voices were wearing thin, they asked their foreign guest to sing a traditional song from his country. I chose Rape Me, by Nirvana. I was allowed a one-time pass under the Geneva Conventions, article XVMCVIIIc., regarding Moronic Things that Foreigners May Do and Why You Shouldn’t Shoot Them.

As I left the bar, invigorated by my shared experience with the musicians, a familiar face approached me. The smirking man. Apparently, he had been sitting in the back of the bar enjoying some post-work cocktails. He didn’t understand my song, but said he enjoyed it. He invited me for another drink, an opportunity to mock other bar patrons who had fallen prey to THE THEORY. He was really interested in sharing a drink, but the nightcap had already taken affect. Besides, sharing drinks with drunks deserves its own theory and should be avoided at all costs. Upon denial, he began to tell me, in a debauched stutter, how he would probably just go home and paja el carne. Thinking I didn’t understand, he began to physically demonstrate the universal hand signal for yanking the cow utter. And at the moment, I realized that I was no better then the pathetic drunk. As I would probably retreat to my quarters and partake in that international ritual known as post-bar time solitude.

The following evening, the clock approaching midnight, I had actually forgotten to eat dinner. How do you forget to eat dinner? Is there some sort of primal law that requires humans to eat the evening chow?

Only one place was open. Mexican. In certain cities in America, this establishment could be considered an authentic opportunity to feast on Mexican delights. But when another culture attempts to recreate burritos and tamales, the results can be frightening. Like getting pizza in Tokyo. As I read the local newspaper, amazed how much easier it was to read a second language then to verbally understand it, I spotted another lone diner. According to the dinner theory, these two conversationless grubbers should unite to form a productive dinner partnership.

Was it fate? Who was this guy? The smirking spanker was here again. I took precaution. We would enter into this relationship slowly. Just friends, from a distance. We began to talk across the empty expanse of hanging sombreros and forsaken Corona bottles.

The conversation began innocent enough. We were now acquainted with each other´s countenances. He was a 38 year old waiter who apparently enjoyed de-stressing after work. And he didn’t like women because when you went out to eat with them, they could never make up their mind. And they always took so long to get ready. Well, I clearly agreed with him, but stated that this was no reason to swear off an entire gender. But he was sick of women. Couldn’t take them and their procrastinating ways. After some moments of hesitation, he confessed enjoyment of his fellow gender.

Movie pauses. At this junction, most single men in a foreign country would excuse themselves and run down the street. I thought I would hear this guy out. Obviously, he thought I was free range meat, up for the taking. The Geneva Conventions stipulation that all single men in bars without woman in foreign lands are free meat for the gay community was clearly being summoned. And shortly after his confession, he utilized some indecipherable slang that was given the international symbol of a finger disappearing into a hole.

Without invitation, the smirking spanking hole prodder joined my vacant table. His sexual frustrations began to rain. The conservative Catholic community made life as a perverted gay man very difficult. He just wanted to get laid. Couldn’t I help? Pretty, pretty, please. I couldn’t simply deny this guy without somehow trying to save him. It was the Christ in me.


Following an avowed declaration of my waning heterosexuality, the smirking spanking hole prodding stalker (S.S.H.P.S) was to take advice from the solo dining Gringo. I began with a lifestyle change. He had to leave the small town and make his way to the capital city. Its in the capital cities of the world, where one can find any semblance of a gay scene. And until he allowed himself to be near a place that accepted his lifestyle, he would remain miserable, stalking unsuspecting foreigners. I then made an economical plan that laid out a savings program that would allow him to leave with some financial security and enough time to find a job. He even received advice on how to find out if a guy is straight --- stalk him only long enough to see a beautiful girl pass his vision. Then a handsome man. Depending on which one made his head turn, he´d get an answer without having to ask the embarrassing question. He listened attentively as I continued the uplifting speech on How to be a Homo and Really Really Enjoy Yourself.

His name was Javier. He thanked me. I left the restaurant feeling that maybe I actually made a difference in somebody´s life. A person who only wanted what all other humans want – Happiness. And an environment to achieve it in. Hopefully, Javier would move to the capital and enjoy years of no-hassle fornicating.

The streets were as empty as the day after Armageddon minus the troops. The air was cool, and as I looked back toward the restaurant door, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe my Spanish wasn’t translated in Javier´s ears the way it should have (with no recongition of the foreign translation transgression theory). Maybe he took my advice as a sign of my interest. Would the Geneva Conventions really protect me at this hour? Despite the challenge of uneven cobblestone streets, I ran the 6 blocks home. I went to bed, wondering who was that person downstairs, pacing the street?

Where the Wild Things Aren´t

Paul Newman. That´s who he reminded of. With the eyes of Hannibal Lechter. And when he spoke, it was like listening to rocks in a blender. Austrians shouldn’t speak Spanish. As their Rhinelander neighbors would say, they have a hard enough time with German.

Ah-nold. Me yama Ah-nold.

Naturally, I asked him to repeat a certain Spanish phrase.

Hah. Hah. Yah. We all know the “Hasta la Vista.”

We agreed to speak in English, so that I could stop saying WHAT every three minutes.

He would become known to me as Arnold Ayahuasca (pronounced Aya-wannafuckyourmindup-ca). And an Omen. A positive one. I think.

We were crammed together in a small, steel covered boat; motoring our way up the Amazon. I had ventured to a remote corner of Peru to visit a string of riverside villages that were the centerpiece of an American funded Rainforest preservation project. Having been inundated with Save the Rainforest campaigns for years, I was curious if there really were shopping malls on the ashes of former jungle. And wouldn’t the planet be happier if everybody, not just suburban Americans, had the welcome opportunity to allow Chick-Fil-A into their lives.

A good friend, who for the sake of his own dignity in being associated with me, shall remain an enigmatic mystery --- this mystery man had spent years extolling the beauty of this particular piece of Amazonian paradise. He spearheaded a non-profit group, since your deemed unworthy to spearhead a for-profit group, that taught reforestation techniques to local residents. Basically, they were shown the value of re-utilizing their farmland, and planting native trees, rather then a continuous death march into the Amazon´s interior, where the local denizens had spent decades chopping down virgin forest and introducing non-native plants. Like Rose bushes and Christmas Trees.

A genetic skepticism kept me wondering --- Was this No-fo-Profit simply another half-ass program, with no impact, whose real purpose is to assuage the guilt of corporate Americans looking for another opportunity to network? Gotta network. Not goin´ anywhere, unless you network. Or perhaps a front for my clandestine friend´s cocaine smuggling operation --- after you cut down those coca plants, you plant new ones. Comprende Amigo.

Arnold Ayahuasca and the Gawky Gringo were about to find out. And as I spent more time traveling down that nearly mythical river, the Austrian Ayahuasca King reminded me of something---something more profound then his shared Terminator lineage. Drugs were fascinating. Especially those that ripped apart your pre-conceptions, birthing new methods of thought. C´mon --- A bunch of trees, some birds, and a few purple colored insects OR a hallucinogenic journey into the essence of your soul. Fuck savin´the trees, I was embarking on a mission to save the soul. And maybe see some really cool colors. Oh yeah, the colors, man, the colors. Whose got the Ayahuasca?

The Austrian Aya guru has been leading tours of middle agers (of the non medieval variety) on a quest for the drug´s promised therapeutic affects. The all knowing Aya has been used for eons by the tribal residents of the Amazon. While undergoing traditional ceremonies, presumably full of people in weird masks and indecipherable chanting (the core ingredients of all traditional ceremonies), participants would undergo a body cleansing so severe that resulting hallucinogenic visions would lead the possessed to find answers to their ailing health problems. Betty Ford may not approve, but should we give a shit what she says. Many people missed their mail, including crucial deliveries of secretly packaged goods from Adam & Eve, to mourn the loss of a man, her husband, who wasn’t even elected President. Did that cocksucker mourn the loss of 3 million Cambodians while his administration helped support their Torturer, a man who brings shame to the word Pot? And if I´m going to check myself in for drug problems, wouldn’t the Hunter S. Thompson Rehab Clinic be a lot more fun?

Some people have claimed Ayahuasca has cured their cancer. Others have found answers to lifelong problems. And yes, many people have simply had really wacked out mental trips. But when you don’t know personally, all the stories only make you crave it more. Imagine never having eaten chocolate, subjected to years of glorifying stories, as regurgitated from the mouths of lonely women --- women who have now permanently forsaken the pecker for the pint. Yeah, that lady may not look so hot, but her bucket of yet-to-be-tried fudgepackin´ brownie swirl will drive you nuts.

The accommodation for the week was a half-finished house. In Amazonian parlance, this does not mean the entertainment room is finished, but we´re still waiting for the slate countertops to come in for the kitchen. You get wood planks on stilts, a palm leaf roof, no walls, and no bathroom. And when its finished, you get more palm leaves for a bigger roof, and more wood floorplanks for, well, more floor. And that fit me just fine. A mosquito net, a hammock, a some fresh river fish --- life is good. Uh….with one small detour. I WOULD NOT SHIT FOR THE ENTIRE WEEK. So I thought.

Taking a crap is mental. Well, a big part anyway. It´s the reason most school kids could wait until they got home rather then defecate amongst the falling wet toilet paper cascading off the RestRoom ceiling. I made it 8 days once. In the Himalayas. 8 days until the explosion occurred. I only had 7 to go this time. I could do it. I would stuff my scrawny face full of rice and bread, turning my stomach into an impregnable fortress of gluten. Once your in, Nobody leaves until I say so. I would not tell Arnold. I did not want to spend my week being called a Girly-Mon.

Us Austrians, Ve are strong. Von time, I shit en my Audee, on da Autobahn. Driving 240 kilometers an hour. And you. You no shit and drive. Ha. You drive 90 kilometers hour, then look for gas station. Vere ve shit, ve do not need no key.

The mosquitoes were creating my carcass. Everytime you think you found paradise, those harbingers of the non-genital itch take it away. But despite the incessant molestation of my disease carrying enemies, life off the Amazon was enriching.

Not one incident of River Rage. People paddled their sunken wooden canoes with smiles and waves. The Children played in the river and nobody seemed to miss their Nintendo Playstations. As the men labored over their yucca harvest, jokes flowed freely across the field, a job that seems far from amusing. And while the women scrubbed the poo from their children´s underwear on the river´s banks, laughter continued to be the norm.

No body asked me for money. Never. And when you’re a white dude in a brown country, people like to ask for money. No body asked me to get them a Visa to the U.S. Cause when you’re a white dude in a brown country, people like to ask for Visas.

This was purity. Life before the development of a Consumer Society, one that leaves it´s constituents constantly craving more. There was no electricity to bring the false hopes of telenovelas. No television to corrupt the minds with products promised to simplify; products that lead to an endless quest for better, more convenient products. A drug of the worst kind: UNSATISFACTION. No magazines to distort the mental well-being of the women. No Porn to make the men want Swedish Penis Pumps. NO newspapers to remind the population that the world is a terrible place, that they should never leave their homes, except to buy the products supporting their publication. But make sure you return home when your done, OK. No Billboards promising Only 26 more miles until a SuperSized Double Artery Bacon Cheese Burger.

All the fruit one could conjure grew on the trees outside the home. All the medicine meant to cure, was found on the leaves from the backyard trees. The material to build the home came from those very same sources. The protein swam in the river. Each community had a meeting hall to discuss current events. Like whose turn was it to dig the shitting hole. Each town had a school and a park like ground to play sports or deflower your sister. All the essentials of life were here. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. There was no residential DMV. And no where to get Drive-Thru.

The only real things that these towns, and other non-modernized towns around the world need are fairly inexpensive basic things. Things that all governments should be vilified for not providing. Access to clean water, also know as a Well. Septic type system to properly deposit waste. Access to certain medicines not found locally. They don’t need any more used t-shirts that Bob´s Tavern in Aberdeen, Wisconsin sponsored. There are so many god damn clothes in the third world now, I have seen people starting stove fires with some girls pink Champion sweat pants.

Maybe the People who want to save the trees of the World should first focus their attention on the inhabitants who live in those trees. If donations were used to provide the aforementioned to the impoverished communities of the world, millions, literally fuckin´millions, of lives would be saved annually. And then maybe, just maybe that healthy population would help protect the resources that help the rest of the planet to function.

Question: Could people exposed to a more modern way of life actually revert back to the simplistic harmony of natural living? Could the residents of Amazonian tributaries prove immune to the ills of a consumer society? Would the children still spend all day playing outside rather then impaled on a computer screen? Would women still wile away the afternoon joking over laundry rather then comatosing in front of the telly? Who killed JR Ewing?

Yes. Yes. Yes. The rainforest is a magical place. Every insect is a shape and color of new origin. Trees seem to touch the sky, and the ground reeks of goodness. Willy Wonka has come to create Jungle. And it be good. But being a human being, allegedly….I associate with the people. And they are absolutely beautiful. Granted, with no walls, homes tend to be naturally open. But its the people who really made me feel welcome every time I ventured to meet another resident. Sharing their food and their stories. And with a smile in return, they seemed like friends for life.

Meanwhile, the doodie was backing up. The stomach was becoming a mountain of ready-to go refuse. Day Four proved to be the Day of the Challenge. I woke up to the sounds of the first volcanic rumblings. Fuck. The gastric juices were flowing. They weren’t suppose to flow for 3 more days. Quick. Hurry. Damn that river. But how. Bread. More Bread. I went to the kitchen. Which was a plastic bag hanging from the wooden rafters. Arnold was leaving me. Back to the Ayahuasca camp. He seemed impressed by my manly handling of the stale bread loaves. He probably thought I took a gentle Jungle dump every morning, and this was simply my Warm-Up.

When you fart, and you hear no noise, that´s a sign. When you fart, and you feel your hidden cavity begin to salivate, that´s trouble. The time had come. Day 4. I would face the jungle bowl.

I grabbed some toilet paper. Looked for a magazine, then realized I might need hands for support. Running into the trees behind the shack, I quickly dropped my pants and prepared for the worst. But before I could break the Great Wall of Crapina, I heard a yell emanating from the house……Not there. The bathroom is down the other path.

What. It was the voice of my host. I never asked if there was a bathroom. I simply assumed there wasn’t. All of sudden, my rectum seemed to smile. Where was that magazine?

I ran down that path like a Special Olympic champion. An inner-city rioter in an unlocked liquor store. 40´s. Need more 40´s. And as I got to the finish line – there she was --- a 12 foot tall outhouse. The local population is obsessed with tall roofs. It’s the equivalent of having a German automobile. I think people with short roofs get a hard time from their neighbors.

As I entered the Altar, I searched frantically for the bowl. A pit. Something to wave goodbye to my children in. All I found were four planks of wood with a 6 inch gap between them. Im assuming it was 6 inches. I mean, besides carpenters and constant cock measurers, who really knows how big 6 inches is?

I chose the middle board, giving myself plenty of room to maneuver in case of attack.
What would Arnold do? And this time, as I dropped my dried rice covered shorts, I realized something dreadful. Absolutely, dreadful. I had entered a Mosquito Mosh Pit. They were everywhere. I found their Lair. And I was defenseless. What could I do? Those blood sucking commies had been draining me alive all week. And I only had one source of pride left….My Virginity. That prized area of flesh running between the underside of my scrotal sac and the mouth of my rectum. They could eat me raw. And they did. But they would not get my virginity. They would not. Do you hear me? Bastards. So as I firmly planted my feet on the wooden planks, I grabbed hold of a wooden post with my left hand, for balance. I squatted, and with my right hand I began to furiously swat the impending gang of rapists. As four days of starch forced its way down the tunnel, my right hand was playing Muhammed Ali, pre-Al-Quaeda. I slapped and I paddled. I screamed obscenities in an unknown language. The Moors were returning to take back the Alhambra, and I was put in charge of the defensive. And with the deft skills of a martial arts master, I managed to avoid the rain of fecal matter pouring down behind me. Eight minutes later….I left victorious. Arnold would salute me. My chastity would be preserved for that moment of pillage once I reached the Mujahadeen paradise harem. But there was plenty of time until that fated date. But as I turned around to taunt my conquered arch nemesis, the harboring Altar seemed to taunt me. You may have won this round, but we´ll get you. When you least expect it, we´ll get you.

The Ayahuasca was eating at me. I had to do it. All these communities in the Amazon, and some witch doctor was sure to have the potion. But my research proved disappointing. The local people did not use it much. Many of the local shamans had opened up expensive retreats for foreigners, providing such luxuries as toilet bowls and walls. Much of the local indigenous population had been massacred over the years, and the current residents were mezclado, descendants of the massacred Indians and the Spaniards who raped them. I didn’t want to pay some exorbitant amount of money to be surrounded by other white people and toilet bowls. I wanted some freaky witch doctor shaman to put me into a trance. In some isolated place. And old. Somebody real old. Just like the movies.

I came close. I´ll call her the mother-in-law. Cause that´s how she was introduced. By the son-in-law. The husband had been a Shaman, but had passed away. Before he went, the wife was indoctrinated into the world of Shamanism. But this woman must have followed the COSMO edition of How to look Shaman perfectly, cause she was a beauty. Around 80 years old, with long gray hair. She wore a variety of necklaces adorned with stones, and spoke with an odd accent. Her eyes were practically clear, and when she spoke, it seemed as if he was speaking through you, rather then to you. And the son-in-law….well, he looked like a son-in-law. Portly, ripped t-shirt, chain smoking, and uttering nonsense. They were like some kind of bizarre jungle version of Penn & Teller. He kept telling me all the benefits of the drug, while repeating the price (around 6 bucks) every 5 minutes. She simply smiled, pet my head repeatedly, and gave me that look…that look that said, I know, I´ve been asking my daughter for years what she was thinking. And the daughter sat silently with her child, in the back of the house, portraying a sentiment that said, That´s my crazy Mom. Imagine growing up, all your friends asking about your mom, the neighborhood Shaman. Its like the kid who had the wierd New Age Mom. Except her Mom is a friggin´ SHAMAN. The Amazon´s first Reality TV show was in the making.

We set a date. The next evening, around 8pm. I remembered the Austrian Guru´s advice. You vell throw up much. Do not eat da rice. You do not vant to throw the rice. And it must dark. Very wery dark.

I arrived at the house in my best available ceremonial wardrobe. Jeans and a t shirt that said Bob´s Tavern, Aberdeen, Wisconsin. The home was a typical river home, built on stilts with no walls and a tall palm leaf roof. It was away from the village, occupying its own plot of land set back from the River amongst the towering canyon of rainforest trees. The house was simply one giant floor with a mosquito net covered mattress in the middle. The mother and small child were asleep inside, when I arrived.

Mother-In-Law Shaman and Son-in-Law Salesman sat 15 feet away from the sleeping family. Mamma Shaman disappointed by failing to wear my imagined headdress, but she did seem to have some neat little accoutrements. A fan made up of dried corn husks. A stack of hand rolled cigars. A few bottles of mysterious liquids. All positioned around a large metal pot.

She began with a barely discernible chant. He began his endless procession of chain smoking. Then she began to fan me. Much like I imagined my future concubine. Well, a few centuries younger. She presented the large pot to me, and explained that within it´s depths lied the Ayahuasca potion, which she had spent the day cooking – a combination of local roots. I was presented a small cup, and told to do a shot. Like tequila. But they didn’t get it. I was a bit nervous. Would my life be forever changed. Would I cure my Cancer before I discovered it? Would I find Jesus, and spend the remainder of my years knocking on doors preaching the WORD? Would I be brutally beaten by the family of In-Laws and robbed of my Bob´s Tavern tee?

Before I could ponder these nerve wracking questions, I was interrupted by MeatHead….Your going to feel like your drunk, but different (he didn’t know about my past use of hallucinogens – that must be the standard line for all straight people – its like your drunk, but different) and if it doesn’t work, the next cup is free. What is this…the Ayahuasca Bar? I flashed back to the first time I did Acid in high school…I told my buddy it wasn’t working after a mere 30 minutes. He gave me two more tabs and I spent the next 24 hours wondering when the people would stop growing heads. There would be no second cups for me, pal.

The taste of Ayahuasca is so putrid, that after you have done it once, the mere thought of its flavor will make you gag. I have swallowed vomit that tasted better. So here it was. My moment of illucidation. I waited. MeatHead just stared at me, hoping he wouldn’t have to give up another cup and be out 6 bucks. MotherInLaw kept fanning me, singing pretty little songs. And I remembered Arnold´s advice…Concentrate. Ve do da ceremony to find da answers to dose things that they bother us.

I spent my days being introspective, analyzing my life, and the philosophy behind all life. I thought I could try a twist. I would speak with the dead. I would send myself into a higher spiritual realm and find some deceased person that I would like to commune with.

I chose an Uncle. A great man that I wish I knew better. He died tragically but had all the qualities most people aspire too (a loving father, respectful children, a monogamous relationship since high school, a witty sense of humor, an athlete, a musician, a job that provided for all, a sense of modesty --- fuck, lets just say he was a good guy). But not knowing how absurd his sense of humor is, I´ll refrain from ever naming him.

The trip began to intensify. My body felt light. On a cloud with slight vibrations. Warm but comfortable. And then a period of intense focus began. Uncle and I began to talk, Really. Granted, I was probably creating the conversation in my head, but it seemed real at the time. Clear as Noxema visions flooded my mind. I was able to see any incident in my life that I chose. Even that time I was asked to draw a picture of a man and woman in Kindergarten. Apparently, my photos were too graphic, and the teacher tried to fail me. Repeat Kindergarten. Like that´s real hard. More nap time and more photos of poorly drawn vaginas. But mainly this very intense conversation took place with Uncle. He claimed his specter was merely an excuse by me to avoid dealing with my own issues. He never said if he was in a better place or he wished he was back home. We laughed about random thoughts. Even MeatHead and the bizarre situation I found myself in, lying on the floor of the mother-in-law shaman´s home on the banks of the Amazon hallucinating on some mystical plant root.

I realized, at that point, this drug had nothing to do with finding dead relatives and everything to do with using the extreme mental clarity to try and unblock my own personal roadblocks. The same roadblocks that all humans spend their lives trying to overcome. MeatHead was asking if I was feeling a little bit drunk. I responded in English, that I was tripping my ass off. He seemed satisfied.

But I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t puked. Everybody explained how it was a mandatory part of the experience. So I kept sticking my finger down my throat. It was pitch black so I knew nobody would see. Was it wrong to cheat at the Ayahuasca game? Maybe I was an exception. Maybe I didn’t need to puke. I could have mental clarity on my life and visions of the dead, and feel just fine.

Moments later, Murphy´s Law came pounding on my transcendental state. You weren’t going to puke. You were going to Shit. And SHIT HARD. No. But where. Did they also have a backyard altar of waiting mosquitoes? The Gods of Fecal Destruction were knocking. Knocking Hard. But I couldn’t move. My equilibrium was shot. I was a drunk on the High Seas. I literally could not take one step forward. I had been sitting the entire time, feeling perfectly at ease in my tranceful state. And it was then, that I realized the Son-in-Laws real purpose. He was what the Acid Hippie´s called a GUIDE. But unlike the Leary style guide who took you on a mental journey, MeatHead was my Bathroom guide. Nobody walks on Ayahuasca. Who knew?

So I grabbed hold of the son-in-laws shoulder as he escorted me down the steep stairs. I couldn’t hold it. Where? Where? C´mon. He guided me to an area with a lot of dog shit. Which I later realized, having seen no dogs, that the shit belonged to something bigger then a dog with a only two legs and an penchant for chain smoking.

Here I was, hallucinating on some ancient Amazonian medicine, with a complete stranger, whose flashlight jerryrigged to a belt worn around his head shined on my crap spot, and standing pantless in the Jungle. The feces rained from ass like the biblical plague on Canaan. And while the Tropical Earth absorbed my festering fish laden feces, the mosquitoes finally got their revenge. In the back of mother-in-law Shamans house, I was brutally raped by a gang of skin pricking thugs. Defenseless, zoned out in another dimension, the flying insects treated themselves to uncut primal forest. And all I could do was watch the flashlight on SoninLaw´s head and figure out why I did that THING back in 9th grade. Then, I did the much heralded Double Lindy. Leaning forward with chewed up ass in the air, I began to vomit uncontrollably. A dribble at first. Followed by ground covering blasts. Nature had been assaulted by its own by-products.

Back upstairs, fresh from the pillage of gringo sphincter, Mother inquired about my condition. And in a moment of perfect Spanish translation, I understood the pseudo son explaining that I had a mountain of shit, and he hoped the chickens would eat it. The Mom asked how much shit, and he demonstrated with his hands. Was this conversation necessary?

The fanning continued. I decided hallucinations were more fun then introspection. I desperately searched for light, so I could have external visions. And that´s when I saw it. The Ayahuasca god. Standing 10 feet tall. He took up the middle of the room, right near the bed of the sleeping mom. He didn´t speak. He didn’t do anything. But he looked really cool. His head adorned with the same dried corn husks that were fanning me and that devilish look that all tribal masks seem to have. I made trails with the ends of MeatHead´s cigarettes. Shamanic mother had me snorting rubbing alcohol. I was no longer at complete peace. A residue of nausea remained in my body. The mosquitoes were making techno music in my ears. That really bad kind. The type the Gay guys in tight white tank tops like to listen too.

At some point, the odd combo of in-laws got sick of me, and sent me to bed ---- a mosquito net covered half inch thick pad, located a mere five feet from the sleeping mom. Does this go on every weekend in the Shaman household?

And then, just as I was about to fall asleep, the rumblings started. It had been two hours since the last pants dropping. I thought I could walk by now, and since I was no longer sphincterly virgin, I figured I could conquer the Jungle crapper. Two steps outside my Net, and I fell. Moments later, a fart proved to be more productive then that. But there was nothing I could do about it in this state. But I did discover the Beauty of having your own Guide. Son-in-law arose from a dead sleep, strapped belt to head, light to belt, and escorted me back to my shitting post. Located conveniently down the row from his own favorite watering hole. I repeated the double orifice combo, wondering when my organs would start flying out.

I spent the remainder of the night pondering why foreigners subject themselves to this.
Local tradition utilizes Ayahuasca as cleaning tool. A way to rid the body of disease. And I simply wanted to experience some magical mystical phenomenon. It was certainly an experience. One that may need more personal research to determine its therepeautic affects.

As I left the floor, at the break of daylight, the sounds of nature were tantalizing. Every bird whistle. Every frog chirp. Every tree branch. It was like the jungle was actually talking to me. Could that be?

I began my exodus with a series of hugs and sincere thanks to my hosts. That´s when I saw it. My 10 foot Ayahuasca God. In the exact spot I saw the surreal creature. It was a giant Barbie doll. These people haven’t avoided the consumer culture tearing up the fabric of modern civilization. They´re THE MAN behind it all.

Are We Really That Different?

Fruit. Sweet, Sticky, Succulent tropical fruit. The tropics send the North a freighter full of Mangoes simply out of pity. It`s their version of global charity --- no human shall be relegated to apples and oranges. But the rest: the spiky reds, the star shaped bright yellow ovals, the radiant purple teardrops & the rainbow of others; they all stay. The “third” World may be a pillage point for cheap labor, but they´re not that stupid. The White countries can feast on economical computers, allegedly designer influenced clothes, and outsourced customer service. But the fruit stays.

Since Frosted Flakes & Pop Tarts don´t exist in South America, a good morning routine is to grab yourself a freshly squeezed mug of juice. It may not be as healthy as a Trans-Fatless Anti-Oxidant heavy General Mills concoction, but it sure tastes yummy.

One morning, on a quest for a new juice shack, I stopped at a window ornamented with a box of herbs. They made a ring around a basket of tropical fruit, and a large sign, stating: AFRODISIAC. I wasn´t positive on the Spanish translation, but I took a guess. One large house special juice, Please.

As I waited for the Serum, a table full of young guys heckled me.

“(translated from Spanish)After you drink that, you need yourself a woman¨”

“(misunderstanding the translation)Thank you. I enjoy trying new juices.”

“(in American Gangster English, untranslated) Bro. My boy be askin´ if you got yoself a woman here.”

10 A.M. A juice bar with a table full of guys drinking beer. And a tattooed musclehead straight out of the Latin Kings bestseller, “How to make your son into a badass GangBanger, YO.” I had to join this conversation.

Apparently, the juice bar boozers, were part of a new wave of American Exiles. They had proclaimed themselves, THE DEPORTEES. Because that´s what they were. In the United States overly successful War on Terror, ALL residents who were not born in the U.S are subject to deportation for committing a felony. EVEN if they served their time.

Now, there are many people who would instinctively say, “Get em outta here. No good bums. We´ve got enough damn immigrants. We sure as hell don´t need no more convicts.”

But how about the falsely convicted. After years of public exposure, it´s a well known fact that the U.S. judicial system is far from accurate. Or those who actually served their time. Or those convicted of drug crimes. Which happen to be a majority of the American Prison Membership.

I smell a harangue. A short one. An opinion stated as fact. The illegalization of drugs, as promoted most heavily by the USA, is the number one source of conflict in the world. Every single militia/terror group, from Indonesia, to Afghanistan, to Colombia, survives – flourishes, off the high prices that illegal drugs command. This prized group would also include the menacing gangs of North America. Without illegal drugs, the inner city gangs that ravage the American Inner City would be fighting over girlfriends in a Church parking lot, instead of shooting each other (and the children who have the audacity to leave their home and play in the street) in the endless battle to control the local drug trade.

Politicians have spent decades brainwashing the public on the dangers of illegal drugs. While Lung Cancer & Alcoholism steal more lives then a decade of illegal drug related deaths. The idea that legal cocaine will metamorphose the public into a zombie band of killer addicts is absurd. The majority of human beings value their sanity, their health, and their families. For many people, a cocaine hangover will keep them powder free for life.

And why do the wealthy countries of the World have illegal drug use rates that far exceed those of the drug producing countries. I can walk down the street right now in Peru, and get a gram of cocaine for $2 (alright, c´mon on down and get some). As can every local, yet outside of a dive bar, one would have a tough time finding a coke addict here. Does the real problem lie within a broken American Values System? Is America always looking to punish? Is that because it takes a lot more time to ask questions, and admit that most problems are more complex then a jail sentence? The USA has the highest incarceration rate in the World, and yet nothing beneficial has come from the War on Drugs. Although, I´ll admit, some really cool commercials have been created.

So, if the U.S. penal system is designed to punish and release with a second chance, why are people being deported who have served their time? Every day in the Greatest and Most Free Country in the World, fathers and daughters are separated in the name of terror. Daddy sold 10 grams of coke. Served five years. Lived in the States since he was eight. Been out of jail three years. Has a job. No further arrests. A wife and two kids. And one day he finds himself signaled out as an enemy of the Holy Nation of America. Locked up indefinitely, with only his street smarts to keep him from being raped by one of the many lifelong penitentiary residents, now chromosomally transformed. Drained of his life savings, fighting extradition, he finds himself back in a country he hasn´t seen in over 20 years.

“Bro. Bro. Check this out. You know they got some fine ass ho´s here. 6 bucks. And no tips. Bro. These fine ass bitches could be models in America. I ain´t playin´. You got to see this place. Sometimes, I just watch them ladies take it off. No tips, muthafucka, can you believe it. And if you want yourself some, 6 bucks”

He was C-Rock. And he didn’t seem to care about the societal failings of his former country. Life was cheap here. And he would adapt. I was intrigued by the El Dorado of Hot Latin Women, but my new buddy proved more curious, for now. A cross-cultural specimen in society´s affect on the individual.

I had spent the previous day wandering through a trio of villages, located two hours into the countryside of Southern Ecuador´s Andes. My mission started off as a simple rural journey. The usual coterie of market browsing, storeowner conversations, and streetcorner observations. Then, from across the narrow colonial street, I heard “Hello. How are you” I responded in Spanish, trying to avoid any misconceptions that I was a dumb gringo, even though I was a dumb gringo. Five minutes later, another heckle floated my way, “Hey. Welcome. How are you doing?”. Most people in non-tourist Latin American towns do not speak English. Something was a bit off in this place. Maybe everyone was part of some CIA relocation project. Or, more likely, simply knew a handful of English.

Then a large SUV, a very rare sight in rural South America, barely missed hitting me.

The window rolled down. Hey Brutha. How da fuck are ya? How da fuck you end up here?

Uh….ok. Its worth a shot. Yo brutha. Yoose from Brooklyn, yeh?

Close. Queens. Five years. Turns out, I didn’t discover a CIA refuge, but rather the starting point for a rural exodus to the USA. An estimated 80% of the town men were working in New York City. Good town to have an affair in.

A series of conversations ensued. And a general consensus was shared by all:
1. They all preferred to be in their home countries, with their customs and their people in the street. The life here was more friendly, and more tranquil.
2. They didn’t feel America offered more freedom, and many said they actually felt South America seemed more free (although, since many went over illegally, this could explain that sentiment)
3. They felt America offered much more economic opportunity, and the money they could save in America went much further in South America. (Hey, that’s my excuse)

So these rural Andean towns were experiencing a building boom of new homes. And a few more SUV´s. And people who liked to speak English.

For the new American Congress: The much anticipated Immigration Plan
1. Allow an enormous increase in Temporary Workers. 5 years.

2. Each worker pays taxes including a small amount that pays for the return plane ticket in 5 years.

3. Part of the tax money derived from temporary immigrants educates them on the benefits of Saving. Special incentives are offered from banks with higher interest rates to encourage the saving. Both increasing trust in the banking community (something most new immigrants do not have) and boosting the capital domestic banks have for investment.

4. Another education program would teach the importance of re-investing savings in the native countries. The only way to eventually halt the brain-drain of developing countries and to guarantee political (safety) stability is to build domestic economies. Returning Ex-Pats are a tremendous source of this re-investment.

5. Each departing Temporary Worker gets a framed photograph with a cardboard cutout of their choice of celebrity.


Clearly, this is rather basic, but the theme is obvious. America is a well of cash for those willing to work. And there will always be jobs that most Americans refuse to take. And a line of foreigners ready to slave. But these people really only want a more comfortable life for their families. More stuff, to be precise. Since food and housing are cheap, even by local standards in most developing countries. The majority of Illegal Immigrants would go back and be with their families. Sure, some would get addicted to Wal-Mart and Slurpees, but the others would take their new American zest for innovation and market tropical slurpees in their native hometowns.

And now, I was dealing with another type of Hispanic-American. Why were gangbangers a rarity in most South American towns? Even the kids that looked liked hippies and metalheads seemed to still show respect. How did C-Rock go from an obedient 8 year old kid to a drug dealing gangbanger covered in tattoos?

The Deported had an answer. Good. Because a great societal divide was about to be revealed. “C” felt the value system was different among the American Immigrants (the newly arrived). Each family in the neighborhood had different values and different customs. And the families always felt they were alone. They weren’t part of an established neighborhood with a history of family and neighbors --- the usual system in the world that keeps respect and order in most towns. And many times, the kid had one parent emigrate with them, and that parent was working all the time. And there was no extended family to watch over the kid, so the kid went to the street and joined up with his other friend in the same situation. And the problem grew from there.

To prove how much the streets of Miami corrupted C-Rock (I didn’t make his name up), his first month back in Ecuador shows some insight.

The majority of people in South America are quite friendly, and street fights are not a common sight amongst the sober. One evening, C-Rock heard some guy call his friend a LOBO – which literally means “wolf”. And can be construed to be slightly offensive in a slang manner. The heckler kept shouting “LOBO”. C-Rock approached him, and with one punch, put the LOBO shouter on the ground. Turns out the friend being heckled has a twin brother, who won some Reality TV SHOW (the horror of reality tv has spread this far). His brother´s name on the show: LOBO. And most people frequently mistake him.

This kind of irrational behavior is typical of American inner-city males. C-Rock admitted he was a product of his old environment, but he was trying to change. He may not be drinking juice, but at least he was in the juice bar.

“C” became a pet project for me. I embarked on some kind of inter-cultural anthropological study. We spent more time discussing life in the two countries, and plans to bring his daughter to come live with him. But mainly, he kept rhapsodizing about the Strip Club from Heaven.

After countless dead end “meetings” with conservative local females, I thought a parade of fleshy sensuous Latina women was well deserved.

I descended the worn green carpet stairs with the utmost enthusiasm. I was about to be privilege to some sort of local secret. A little nirvana where open minded attractive women went to flaunt their blessed gifts. The kind of place horny men from around the world spend a lifetime of wasted dreams on.

The lights were bright. Cheap patio tables full of men sat around. A small bar in the corner. No strip pole or stage. Damn, the lights were bright. And forming a semi-circle around the peeling linoleum floor stood eight women. In various stages of false pregnancy, wearing clothes their kids could barely fit into. Each woman carried a weapon – a roll of toilet of paper.

We pulled up wobbly plastic seats under the blitzkrieg of lights. And watched the circle of women jiggle their wares and flaunt their Charmin´ Two Ply´s. I was waiting for some kids to run out onto the floor, asses dripping in shit, while the slutty mummies wiped away the poo and the crowd went wild.

“Bro. I swear to you. Its not normally like this. Really. If you want to kill me, you can. Bro. Really. I don’t know what happened¨”

So the next hour was spent watching the Toilet Roll girls get picked up and brought to one of the dozen rooms that surrounded the alleged dance floor. I felt bad for the one girl who no body picked. Poor girl. Blubber hanging over her mini-skirt and a roll of toilet paper stuck on her left hand.

Then there was the girl with two rolls of toilet paper. What did she do?

Amongst the fecal obsessed brothel, one beautiful woman lurked. A tall, thin, bronzed beauty with a red mini-skirt and knee-high white leather boots.

“Bro. Bro. You better stick that shit. She´s all yours. Cause if you don’t jump on dat shit, I´m taking her”

There was something about prostitutes that always turned me off. I respected their job. Thought they were a necessary part of humanity. Hypothetically fought for their legalization. But there was something sexually unattractive about sleeping with a woman who just slept with the guy with the fish scraps on his mustache. I lived near Amsterdam for 6 months, and managed to avoid the lure of the RED LIGHT.

And here I was, being peer pressured by my new buddy. There has always been the sense of uber-pride in men when it comes to a conquest. Whether man has taken over a new country, bought a new car, or screwed his neighbor´s wife – that pride is there.

As a person who prides himself on trying new experiences, why not fuck the cute girl with the toilet paper. Its just a little slip and slide. Everybody does it right. No lies. No hang-ups. You don´t have to feign a relationship. No failed promises to call later. No emotion. The oldest profession in the world, go on, help yourself, and take a dump when your done. She´ll clean you.

But the girl was popular. Every time she came out of a room, another man tapped her teepee roll, and off they went. The place was closing, and the masculine taunts were growing.

As I left my broken patio chair, I thought I should live it up. If I´m going to pay for it, I should really PAY for it. And orgy with 5 women would only set me back 30 bucks. The cost of entry to a strip club in most American cities. And I could invite the girl no one ever picked. I wouldn’t actually pork her, but Id let her stand there wrapping the other girls in her toilet paper. Maybe I´d wink at her. Give her a thumbs up. Let her know everything is going to be ok.

Do you give a pick up line to a brothel worker? I asked the white boots mamma what her favorite color was. She only took her wad of ass wiping paper and pointed to a room. Fairly stern for a skinny girl. I tried asking her opinion on fivesomes, but the Spanish translation came out to, “You suck her, she eats you, I want to eat some too, then she sucks your friend with the paper roll who ….” She cut me off. Either I was in with her or she would go off with another desperate loser.

The room was much like the residences I choose for temporary lodging. Clean. Boring. Small. But with lots of mirrors. The bed was made. Only a twin size bed. No time for cuddling.

Shit. This was it. The moment to lose my virginity. She slowly removed her satin red mini-skirt. I coyly asked her if she did this often. She ignored me. Then motioned for me to come closer. She unbuttoned my jeans, and pulled them down to my ankles. I took off my sneakers. Never an erotic move, but certainly a comfortable one.

I stood there. Tan faced pasty body. Naked. And started laughing. A trickle at first. Heh-heh. And then it unleashed itself. I couldn’t get the toilet paper out of my head. All those women and their goddamned fuckin´toilet paper. And the groups of men sitting around patio tables and bright lights. And the knowledge that there was no way I could have sex with this girl. I finally understood why intimacy was so important.

She was staring right at my midsection and crying with laughter. What? Just cause I laugh, you gotta laugh. Have you never seen a white flaccid, really flaccid, uncircumcised penis before? Apparently, a naked man laughing with a small cock is reason for a hooker with a roll of toilet paper to laugh, as well.

So, there we were. Two strangers. In an intimate setting. Coming together for a spontaneous romance. Laughing. And then her vagina began to talk to me. I should use the toilet paper to clean her. So I laughed harder. At the talking vagina. She probably stopped laughing at this point, but my delirium would not stop.

She seemed upset. I wasn’t paying her enough attention. I looked at her clock. I had only been in there 8 minutes. I needed to kill at least 10 more minutes, and a hard-on was the last thing I could count on. If I left now, all the locals would laugh at how incompetent the Gringo was. Afterall, they were right outside the door. Like some highschool party, and all the first time drunks line outside the laundry room closet awaiting the results of 7 minutes in Heaven.

And in the unaroused nude, my lady friend became my latest interview subject.

She had only been doing it 6 months. She was tested weekly. Everyone absolutely had to wear a condom, but they had to at least be hard. She made more money then anybody she knew and hoped to support herself for years doing it. The men were mostly respectful to her, and most were actually not cheating on their wives (allegedly). She didn’t know what taxes were. Her favorite color was Red. I could leave in peace. And I didn’t even ask for a discount. A reformed Jew. Well worth the 6 bucks.

“Bro. What I tell you bro. You fuck that shit. Real good, huh? That’s what Im talking bout. You gave it to her, gave it to her good.”

“Yeah. It was so good she had to bite down on that roll of toilet paper to keep her from screaming”