The long and winding Stairway to Heaven

The pick-up truck was ass-in-your-neighbor’s lap full. 2 benches facing each other. School kids in their white and blue, heading back to the village, a few elderly oblivious to the gated community conveniences of Over 55 living, and some child bearing women, one of whom I’m sure would relish the virile seed of a young white man.

I approached. Their eyes went deer-in-the-headlight. Gringo. Money. Visa. Husband. Imperialist. Money and Visa. Old Spice. I know what they were thinking. It’s always the same. But the discriminated class like myself know how to handle these situations.

I decided on the boy. 15 or so. Trying to get educated. He’d receive the question. Give him a chance to show off in front of the ladies, the ones he was meekly flirting with. Allow him to handle communication with this striking foreigner, a story he could tell his grandkids in the village one day.

“Excuse me, does this truck go to Playa Medina?”

“No comprendo.”

Maybe I didn’t speak loud enough.

“EXCUSE ME, DOES THIS TRUCK GO TO PLAYA MEDINA?”

“No comprendo.“

Alright, there’s a chance my Spanish is too sophisticated. I’ll slow it down.

“Ex cuse me does this truck go to play a med in a?”

“Mas o menos.”

“Que?”
“Mas o menos”

I can’t believe he’s giving me the mas o menos treatment. It may mean ‘more or less’ but it’s more like a ‘whatever,’ especially when it follows The ‘No Comprendo.“ Is this the story he wants to tell his grandkids, how he told the royal imperialist ‘whatever.’ And ‘No Comprendo.’

“I’m asking you a simple question. Does the truck go to Playa Medina? There are 2 choices. Neither is mas o menos.”

A blank stare. That was his answer. Not one of the two choices. Before I could spear him with my saber, an elderly woman in the rear of the truck spoke up, “Si, we pass Playa Medina.”

This younger generation. Even in the 3rd world sticks these kids are losing their social skills.

Turns out there was one skinny butt place left. As I climbed into the pick-up, I decided to pause in front of the Mas o Menos boy. I think he was gossiping about me with his school friends. If I didn’t lecture him, nobody would, and this vicious cycle of racism would continue, destroying the honest fabric of the Venezuelan countryside.

“I may speak with an accent, and I may not be from here, but I speak Spanish, and I deserve a little respect. I don’t appreciate the attitude, and by the way, there plenty of white people like me who speak your language, so you should be careful how you speak about us.” Yeah, this is how my black brothers in America must feel, The Man always up in their face conspiring against their progress. Now I had my own bout with discrimination.

I turned to face the crowd in my new 4 wheel drive living room, their faces darkened by the low hanging aluminum roof. I expected the older ones to be thankful for a job they neglected. But no. No thanks for saving the youth. Just more blank stares. Peasants.

The Truck stopped. I must have dozed off. It was like a C-130. Jump. Jump. They were all shouting Playa Medina. Aqui. Aqui. Before I could utter a syllable, the truck was gone, and I was standing in the middle of the road. Me. Forest. And a small potholed road. I couldn’t see the sea, smell the sea, nothing. I was about ready to cry ‘deceit’ again, when I saw the Playa Medina sign behind me. Cool. The truck did drop me off in the right spot.

Behind the beach sign, was a dry dirt road heading through the forested hills. A woman who had been eating too much of her own supply sat behind a glass case of wilting empanadas, the brutalizing sun having decided to bake the grease right off of them. Her ‘Jesus’ t-shirt told me at least I was in a blessed place.

Despite the sign with it’s directional arrow and dusty road entrance, I asked the Jesus groupie where the beach was.

She pointed down the dirt road. Just like the sign's big blue arrow. Divined knowledge.

“Is it far, the beach?”

“Si.”

“How far?”

“Far.”

“Can I walk?”

“No. It’s far.”

“Is their transport?”

“Mototaxi.”

“How much?”

“Thirty.”

“For a moto. That’s crazy. I paid that for an hour long car ride. Thirty, really, it’s thirty?”

“Thirty.” And then she proceeded to take out three 10’s, counting them off for me.
Something about my face that day must have screamed idiot. Probably the eye shadow.

“I don’t see any motos here. Or car. Or anything. Does anybody even live here? How long would it take to walk.”

“I don’t know.”

“An estimate, some idea…”
“Thirty minutes.”

“That’s a popular number with you. You should really stick with 33 though. It would make HIM happy. I’m going to walk.”

“It’s dangerous. You can’t”

Dangerous. Crime. Be very careful. These were the modern day slogans of Venezuela. According to the populace, in every town, every city, a wave of carefree hooligans pillaged freely. The police were co-conspirators, and the masses held themselves captive behind concrete walls and barbed wire.

After a month In Country, including a stint in one of Caracas’ ‘worst’ neighborhoods, I stood convinced that my first world barrio of scumbag Puerto Rican gangs would pulverize these alleged thugs. It has actually been my safety plan, in case of attack; Flash the Latin Kings gang sign, yell something about ‘Respect’, and utter a few words of reggaeton. Sure, crime is an unlucky game of chance, and I had just been lucky so far, but here, in a land devoid of traffic or heartbeats, the worst thing happening was the violation of someone's donkey. And 'violation' is probably a disrespect to the donkey's own carnal entitlement.

I started down the auburn dirt road, risking rural crime and a half hour slog.
But I couldn't remove the thought of that woman. Her attitude. She wasn't helpful, at all. No smile, no friendly advice. Just negativity. Throughout Venezuela one will find people eager to share a laugh, offer help or even a drink. It's your typical warm and friendly latin country suffering from yet another scheming government, but somehow the public still finds a way to enjoy. Except that woman. Which made me think why one negative experience outlasts a positive one. Really outlast. Is this why the newspaper never has a story like "Family Enjoyed a Day at the Beach" or "Strangers on Bus now Eating Dinner Together"? Perhaps the news is full of Murder Corruption Arson because we, the general public, want to get angry. That feeling of injustice, or dismay, or DoubleUteeEff, excites us, penetrates us in a way that positive stories are unable to do.

And now I felt the fear creeping in. Logic no longer works. You think you may understand the root causes of paranoia, but alone, white and alone, on a deserted road in a crime plagued nation, you too become another victim. The lush tropical forest now harbored an armada of potential threats, as every rustle became a bandit in hiding. I tried to maintain my cool, but as I approached my first pedestrian, machete in hand, bare foot, I began to imagine the attack. Me running. The bandits circling around, my gang signs a failure. Maybe I could defecate on them during the rape. Why don't more male victims of forceable cock take a dump on the penetrator? I can't imagine any rapist wanting to violate that.

Why was I walking through a peaceful melange of singing birds and coconut palms, the sea somewhere near, the air fresh, and me, thinking about the worst habits of man. I would not succumb to this disease, this perverse fetish of mankind, this burglar behind every bush way of thinking. Besides, worst case, I squeeze out some poop.

An orange painted concrete home, clean and small, sat set back from the road. An older gentleman attempted some repairs on a dying vessel. He probably couldn't get it up, so I felt safe in approaching him.

"Excuse me sir, Hi, how far a walk is it to Playa Medina?"

"About an hour. Be careful though. Dangerous. There is a woman who sells chocolate though. Good luck."

Another half a mile passed until the next home. The chocolate lady. She sold it out of her living room. Raw. She saw my bitter taste reaction, and offered me another treat. Go ahead and try it. Free.

So this is how it will go down. Not from behind, but right in front. Clever. American's aren't the only ones hip to the lure-them-in-with-sweets mutilate them later thing. Halloween techniques have gone international. Maybe I could do like the undercover narcotics officers and feign ingestion. Do those guys really pass up the chance to snort smack? I doubt it. I'll eat it, then walk away real fast.

But before I could escape, she offered me another one. I wasn't crazy about the first, but maybe the half kilo a sugar she dumped into each candy would get me through this hike. I felt bad not buying one. She didn't. Gave me a smile, wished me a good walk, and of course, advised caution.

Another mile or so of thick forest yielded the occasional home, usually built solid with concrete, painted some color or another banned from the gated subdivision. Where was the poverty, the begging children, the crumbling shacks?
Was this the result of Chavez, the saviour of the poor?

"No, the government doesn't do much for us. Everybody here grows food, sells food, and most have had their properties for a very very long time. You know, you do repairs over the years, make improvements. Life is alright here. Yeah. Not too far. Maybe half an hour."

That older guy was relatively upbeat. Healthy looking. No distended belly like the charity commercials. As I continued along the road without end, he added, "Just watch your things, careful, good luck."

Things...outside of those bestowed upon me by Our Holy Father, I had nothing. No credit cards, phone, bag, towel, nada. Why do people even feel the need to say 'be careful?' If you walk along the street, especially in a fairly poor country, wearing a Rolex, holding cash in your hand, giving handjobs to shady men on the side of the road, well, you deserve a good mugging. But don't most people, across every society, take a regular degree of caution in their dealings with both strangers and strange environments. Is it really necessary to tell somebody that? And don't most people, when they come into an area that looks like a ghetto, with a lot of young men hanging on a corner, or a street full of abandoned houses, don't most people instinctively know what black women scream in the movie theater, "Run, bitch."

Further, why do people feel the need to say 'be careful' at all. If I borrow your car, do you really think that I'm going to drive ninety down a dark alley and slam into the mayor's brick garage, that your 'be careful' will save your car. No. Instead, I'm not going to relax, so when I need to accelerate and pass the drunk idiot threatening my right of way, I'm going to remember your 'be careful' and rear end the swerving Escalade. Humans. We are guilty of creating the paranoia that enslaves us to fear. That's why I always hold stock in American insurance companies.

I tried to relax. Soon the rustling creepiness revealed lizards and yellow bellied birds. The salted air became a nasal treat promising salvation just around the corner. I must have walked an hour by now. An older man with a toothless grin sat behind a table piled with yucca. A granddaughter accompanied him, under a mature avocado tree.

"You have any yucca that I can eat now?"

"No, only these. You can cook them though. We grow them here."

"That's alright, I'm without a kitchen at the moment. Is it safe for you two to be sitting at here? You aren't worried?"

"Serious? No no, we always sit here. It's very peaceful here. Without problems."

"But I heard it was dangerous, that's why I asked."

A curly haired man appeared from behind some other fruit tree. Probably the whitest farm man in Venezuela. Could be an albino. You ever see a black albino speak like a brutha? That's freaky.
He was munching on a piece of fruit. Oblong and brownish. The paranoid side saw him going for the machete on the farmstand table, taking me prisoner, and having me translate Danielle Steele novels, oral re-enactments and all. The sensible side of me said he was White.

"Are you going to Playa Medina?"

"Yeah, I hope I'm going the right way. I've been walking since the highway, maybe an hour or so."

"Sure, sure. You're close. Almost there. Where do you come from?"

"The U.S., but I'm not an Imperialist, just a colonizer. A friendly colonizer like the Swedes. Not the French."

"Not to worry my friend, we are not Chavistas here. Nor anything political. They are all liars. And cheaters. We are fine here. We take care of ourselves. Come take a look."

And the curly haired caucasian escorted me across the property. His smile wouldn't sleep as he proudly pointed out the large avocado tree, a few from the mango family, some coconut palms, breadfruit, another large tree with some long straggly fruit. Across the street was a small area full of cacao trees bordered by a couple of hillsides seeded with corn and yams.

"The people come down here to buy what we have. Sometimes I take it to the nearest city, where you probably came from, and sell it there. It's not much but we live ok."

"And the crime problem? Doesn't your family worry about safety?"

"Here? No, (he is laughing) this isn't Caracas, or some other city. In the country it's fine. No problems."

He then walked me down into the small forest of cacao plants. Here is where my body would be found. The embassy would call for an investigation. The local authorities would claim it's an accident. My local paper back home would have a brief story on the murder, shoved back on page 4 below the story about a Uzbeki woman giving birth to nine children at the age of fifty-seven. I'd soon be forgotten about, another casualty in the transnational crime wave terrorizing the citizenry everywhere. Maybe I could fight back, make myself into a national hero, the new Simon Bolivar. I'd single handedly show the nation that Imperialists stand up to thugs, that capitalism is your friend. They'd bring me in front of the National Assembly where the harrowing details of my near death victory would inspire a small revolution. The exasperated working class would take control from the current propagandists, drawing inspiration from my act of rebellion. Schoolchildren would arrive from across the nation, descending upon the cacao tree where the movement was born, where a Gringo stood up for the rights of the common man.

My opportunity for achieving national holiday status was sabotaged by my captor's sheathing of his rural dagger, and offering of a cacao fruit.

"You can eat it. Sure. It's sweet. The seed that makes the chocolate is inside, but this part here, you just suck it. Don't eat the seed, it's not good."

What a value! One cacao fruit must have had a hundred seeds, each with it's own yummy membrane. What person discovered chocolate? How could anybody figure out that this slightly bitter, practically tasteless seed, normally discarded, would taste so freakin' good when mixed with a bit of sugar and melted over somebody's nipples.

I said my goodbyes, and took my choco sucking to the road, the ocean paradise promised to be only a few curves away. I was a bit put off, not receiving a 'be careful, danger' warning, but somehow, some way, I was managing.

It was probably close to noon, when the entire country closes shop, closes school, and returns home for the meal of the day. A school kid or two would now pass, giggling as they saw a gangly white man fellating their prized export. Really, who figured out this lychee looking, grape tasting fruit would conquer the primal desires of females the world over.

The road creeped up, down, curved, sometimes a patch of pavement, but never a view of the sea. Waves? Where was that soothing sound from option 3 on the alarm clock?

The cacao seeds were empowering. Fearlessness, confidence. They returned. No longer did I see a gang of gypsy children plotting my assault. Just kids enjoying the carefree ways of car-less roads. The machete wielding barefoot men carrying mysterious baskets of unseen cargo. They weren't interested in my buttocks. Nor my wallet. They were simply machete wielding barefoot men carrying mysterious baskets of unseen cargo. Life be good.

My first crossroads appeared. These are the metaphors for life, you know. I was prepared to ask for guidance, knowing the decision was one of slaughter or salvation, a late night embassy call to my family or coconuts on the sand. There were people choosing both routes. By the time I arrived, the pivotal choice looming before me, the count was two and two. Dead even in the amount of pedestrians going slaughter, going salvation. I looked to the sky for guidance. A skinny woman with droopy breasts and a runaway child passed to the left. 3 - 2. The Left wins. Typical Venezuela style. The Lord always finds something to show you The Way.

As the azure waters and deserted hammocks pulled me to the left, guided by Him, I noticed a large piece of wood, supported by a long stake.
Playa Medina >
Coincidence or Fate. God or a lot of conservative molecules. Once again, I would abandon the Left for sensibility's sake.

Immediately the Right yielded the first proper business of the day's journey. A small bodega guarded by 3 shirtless men. To me, it was Wal-Mart. But probably with better wages. Candy bars, chips, brightly colored sodas, fried snacks, inferior toiletry products. It was the diet of the American ghetto.

"Do you have water? A bottle of cold water, por favor."

"Let me check, I don't think we have water."

"It's ninety-five degrees here. I see eight refrigerated shelves of cola. One for each color of the rainbow. You must have water."

The older of the three guardians, most likely the father based on the other two's similar looks and his highly developed abdomen, went hunting. Some time later he returned with two choices. A ten gallon tub of water, or a small bottle covered in bodega muck, neither of which came from chilled environs.

Disgusted by the Bodega Buddha's incompetence, I left without purchase. It was punishment. Hopefully, me depriving him of thirty-eight cents would teach him good business practices.

People in Venezuela complain about the economy, as they are keen to do the world over. But here, they really struggle economically despite the oil wealth. One reason is the complete lack of differentiation. Offer something unique, offer something better. I thought it was common sense, but that could be cause it's capitalist common sense, not socialist common sense. At night, in any Venezuelan town, you'll find four stands, side by side, selling food. Each one offers hamburgers and hot dogs, with the same toppings, on the same quality meat, for the same price. No one offers exotic toppings, or milkshakes, or grilled soy patties with an organic tamarind sesame sauce. What local nutrients allow the frontal lobe to develop such that one may think, "Honey, I'm going to get into business for myself. Be my own boss. You know the plaza, where Juan, Jose, and Hector sell hamburgers, I'm going to set up a hamburger stand." And do the wives speak up, or perhaps the husbands, and say, "Honey, there's enough burgers there, maybe you should sell eggplant parmesan or something."

It's not just food. Go to a Venezuelan market. Twenty-five vendors all selling the same low quality, Chinese made clothing. The Fruit Market, not only does each table sell the same produce, from the same farm, but not one person has ever thought to sell fresh juice, right next to the place you're buying fresh fruit. There is capitalism here. There is a free market. And lots of options. Of the same fucking thing! People complain to me about the dominance of the Chinese and Arabs in the marketplace. But as one Lebanese shwarma vendor told me, after of course he emphatically told me he was Christian, and that Muslims will destroy the planet, he told me, "people here, they not think, only follow. Conformist I think you say. Don't work too hard. Want to enjoy. For me Venezuela is good life. Lot of opportunity. Easy to make money. You have been here. You understand now. Look how they think."

I shouldn't be so hard on Venezuela. After all, they are one of the few non- American nations to adopt baseball as the national sport. Then again, if there is one sport more boring than soccer, it's the one where a testicle tugging man stands on a small hill, looking paranoid, taking two minutes to release a tiny ball that will soon land in the paws of a crouching fat man, only to be returned to the paranoid man on the hill who will repeat the process. The sport's purists say Cubs fans aren't true fans cause they spend their time getting drunk at ballgames. I claim they are intellectually superior.

And Venezuela isn't alone in this refusal to offer the customer something new. It's the plague of the developing world. Venezuelans, Bolivians, Malaysians, they all have complaints against the U.S.
Politically, they have reason. But at least we're a country of innovators. Without the television, internet, telephone, automobile, or microwave popcorn, the planet would still be playing with rocks, making finger puppets over the fire, and not having the privilege to regale their children about the times they walked twelve miles to school.

Thirsty, out of cacao seeds, and slightly embarrassed over my new found pride in microwave popcorn, I pushed my way through. The road had an end. Hopefully, it wasn't mine. The initial joy of the unknown, the nature, the adventure, well, it was wearing. The midday sun was burning like a spicy curry coming out the other end, the forest stopped shading, and machetes were no longer a threat, nor relief from the piercing sounds of a Weed-Wacker. Where were the bikinis? Where were the beach shacks with t-shirts reading:

I GOT WASTED
&
TASTED
(poorly drawn animation of woman intoxicated enjoying cunnilingus, depicted below in neon)
PLAYA MEDINA, VENEZUELA

There were zero signs, divine or physical, that the shoreline was near. Worst, the road was climbing. Where were those billboards from Orlando that appeared every few miles, with an "Are we there yet?", followed by a mile marker countdown? Another clever business idea for the locals. Maybe I could offer that to the proprietor of some beachfront lodging.

Since my departure from Our Holy Lady of the Wilting Empanada, I'd been passing small plantations of mangos, avocados, plaintains, and soursop. Should I have been surprised that the only produce I'd encountered in miles of walking was yucca? There are few products of the earth less edible than an uncooked yucca. And most of those will kill you.

I mentally masturbated myself to the pleasures of fresh fruit. But the teasing was leaving me blue-tongued. If not for my fine upbringing, and tetanus fears of the rusty machete, I'd be pilfering these Edenic gardens, strolling these here by-ways like a mad-man, fruit cum dripping from my face, violating one seed bearing treat after the next.

Naturally, just as I was about to forsake a childhood of fine etiquette and an expired tetanus booster, a barred window appeared on the horizon. Behind her, she offered the prized Yellow Phallus. They were the asian style ones, real small. But there were mounds of them. Shopping for bananas when you don't have a kitchen is always a matter of survival, not stock. You just need one or two, not the whole bunch.

The window was their living room. A mother and pre-teen son hovered. The window's ledge perched over a small hill, giving them ample lookout space for security, surely a high concern when you are the road's only purveyor of fine local produce.

The mother gave me a big smile, a 'como estas' and stuff, probably just bait to jack up the price. I know the game. I buy three baby cock bananas, and get the whole kilo price.

"Can I get three bananas please?"

The indentured servant of a son handed them to me. He smiled also. Oh man. When you get two smiles, you're really dealing with the racket. And plus, with their monopoly on the fruit trade, I may blow a day's budget on these poop stoppers.

"Cuanto cuesta?"

They both smiled again. Shit. I don't know if I brought enough money. This was suppose to be a day trip.

"Los bananos, cuanto cuesta?"

Again with the smiles. And an additional gesture, the gentle waving of the backside of the hand. Go.

Really! I could just have the bananas. What's the catch? Maybe Dad is waiting down the road, trying to get me with my guard down. They know I'm hungry, that they've got the corner on the banana market. I'm going to let my guard down, get lost in my own bananarama. Clever. I felt a slight tinge a guilt over my diatribe against their lack of creativity. They just get creative in other ways, like Mexicans with ducktape.

I gave a gracious thank you, and slogged on, pacified by my monkey treats. I kept an eye open for mischievous activity, but Daddy never came out from behind the bush. The road continued. Where was that confounded bridge?

The best three bananas of my life were resting comfortable in their new imperialist belly. There were no more school kids, no more machetes. The village, if that's what I passed, had vanished back into the trees. There was still salt in the air, but no wave sound, no glimpse of turquoise through the leaves. What time was it? It felt like hours had passed.

An man with a fedora appeared. Aged but alive, his wife beater complementing his old man poly slacks very nicely. You have to talk to a man who wears a fedora. It's an unwritten rule of life. Ask for discounts at hotels, keep the thermostat at 68 in the winter, and always speak to old men in fedoras. All unwritten. All rules. Young men in fedoras. Pricks. Definitely don't talk to them.

He smiled, invited me to sit down. He was sitting under a thatched roof awning, sloped gingerly off a compact adobe house, it's solitary window blocked, preventing nosey women from passing in the early night hours, hoping to find someone else with their same Restoration Hardware colonial series sofa.

"Life looks difficult for you. Is everything alright?"

He laughs. Not the hearty laugh of youth, but the laugh of wisdom that only the severely retired (that word was not re-tarded, just to emphasize) seem capable of.

"I still work sometimes. I farm some days. My wife passed six years ago, and my children still live nearby. Many days I come out here (to the little hut we were sitting under) to see what is going on."

"Yeah, there's a lot to see on this road. Lot of movement. Hey, men in fedoras have a good life story. You must have something interesting to share with a
yeoman here."

He presents that laugh again. I trust this man. My culo is safe with him.

"You must have heard about Chavez. I think he's very popular in your country." Slight laugh.

"I've heard about him, yes."

"The opposition wants him out and there are a lot of lies going around. I have seen a lot of governments in my life and this is one of the better ones. There are more health clinics now. Free ones. And you can even get eye surgery done. By the Cubans. No charge. And the kids don't have to pay for university any more. The government has built a lot of homes for people who don't homes. And we have access to food basics like rice and sugar and coffee that the government subsidizes. Other governments wouldn't do this for the people."

"And the corruption, isn't that still an issue that prevents things from getting done, even common projects for the community?"

"Sure, of course. Chavez can't change the people in this country. That attitude will take generations."

"And what do you know outside of politics?"

"Well, I make hats. Do you want to see?"

Who knew? He rose slowly from his spot on the mud wall, his age obvious in his delicate paced movements. He opened up the door to the little mud house on the prairie. Housewives everywhere are jostling for position, 'I always wanted to know what was in that house,' 'do you think he has any cool antiques we can get, maybe real cheap?', 'his kitchen is probably so dated it's hip again.'

A mud walled studio of hats. Dried palm leaf hats. Vietnamese style. Fedora style. Baseball style. A lot of craftmanship. But I couldn't imagine anybody would actually wear one. I didn't see any machete boys with massive palm leaf sombreros.

"Sure, some people. Tourists buy them. They really like them."

I imagined at some point during the year, for at least a day, there were other outsiders who came here besides me.

"Do you worry about the crime? Is it dangerous to sit outside like this, alone, no bars on your window, so close to the road?"

"Crime? There is no crime here. It's a tranquil place. We are in the country. Caracas, Cumana, the big places, they have a lot of crime. Here it's ok. Just be careful."

BE CAREFUL became like my 'ciao', my 'hasta luego'. I prepared myself for the endless trek.

"My sister has a posada by the beach. Tell her you saw me," he said politely as I turned to leave.

I thought I'd combine one unwritten rule with another. "Will I get a discount if I mention your name?"

He laughs that laugh again. The potbelly shakes a bit this time. "I'm Freddy. It's close to here. You will see Posada Angela at the beach."

Freddy Fedora. I like it. And no matter how many times I hear the beach is 'close', I still get excited, like a teenager on yet another date with that really pretty Jehova's Witness. No matter the statistics, Hope is what makes us human.

Freddy gave me another shot of confidence. Any minute now.

Ten minutes later, no sign of heavenly blue waters, but a man built things with his bare hands, an open air shed harbored his previous accomplishments. Was he a divine sign? Why am I meeting a carpenter now? Of all the trades, all the professions, the one I come across practices the craft of Our Saviour.

No beard, cropped hair, and dark skinned, but who knows, maybe before the myth spread, J.C. looked just like this. Why does the Christian world insist on a middle eastern man looking white?"
Does political correctness and 21st century Wikipedia knowledge not tell us different?"

He was humble though, inviting me into his shop and showing off his works. Exact replicas of fishing boats, end tables, and a few chaise lounge chairs. I'm still not sure why Blacks and Latinos sunbathe, but perhaps there are certain ones who fear that the explosion of tanning parlors is giving an unfair evolutionary advantage to the Whites.

I admired his tools. A handcrafted axe, the forging points clearly visible on the iron. A primitive saw. A salt weathered hammer. Nails you wouldn't find at The Home Depot. This was a craftsman. A man who refused to cheat with power tools. He knew the modern age destroyed the individuality of craftspeople, leaving them consigned to producing perfection, surfaces void of scratches and hand-cut curves, those impeccable signs of labor, allowing the buyer to know the sweat that created his table.

"I really like your tools. You don't find tools like this in my country anymore. It's all mechanized. Electricity. No more bloody knuckles, no more love the wood 'till you bleed attitude."

He rose from his sunken stool, and calmly pointed behind. An wobbly extension cord ran from a house across the road, draped over an electric line, and down behind his work shed. A newer Bosch circular saw sat sideways, next to a large electric palm sander.

"Have you heard of IKEA?"

"No, what is that word?"

"They are a furniture maker. From Sweden. The land of blondes. Have you seen a blonde before?"

"On television, yes."

"Do you feel that the image of Cristo takes away from some of the respect you deserve?"

"Que?'

"You appear to be a talented carpenter, just like Him, but due to colonialism, melatonin levels and other factors, you are unable to appear as He has been made to appear."

Confusion, and then light laughter ensue. "I'm not very religious, but I think I make a strong chair. Do you like this one?"

"It's a bit heavy to carry, sorry. I'm trying to get to the beach. I'm sure it's close, right, cause I see you're making beach chairs?"

"Yes, yes, real close. Right over there."

And...and...where's the 'be careful'? Maybe a man created in the likeness of God's son, who always has a sharp instrument nearby, well, that is a man who knows no fear.

I had come to accept that Playa Medina was a sham to punish foreigners, primarily Europeans and North Americans for their centuries of abuse in hispanic lands. They, the locals, know the white man has an insatiable desire for gold, for toilet paper, and for the perfect beach. The Latin American, they'll swim in the closest body of water to their house. If there is a roadside puddle deep enough to bathe, the family will be out there, grills lit, beach umbrellas, radio blasting, kids playing in the water.

The white man has this drive, a deep biological drive, to locate the most deserted beach imaginable, void of all life, that requires at least three forms of transport and two days to reach. He checks the travel publications to ensure nobody has placed his private sandy utopia on a Top 10 list. After he makes sweet sweet love to his awestruck mate, he enjoys the raw power of unadulterated
nature until sunset. He quickly returns to an area where there is cell phone coverage, excitedly calls his developer buddy Chaz, and within a year an eight hundred room resort opens. All inclusive. Great deal. Make sure to ask for a discount in the off-season.

People in Venezuela knew about the beach, at least about it's existence. They claimed it was one of the country's most beautiful. But hardly anyone had actually been to it. I was beginning to understand why. That clever clever Chavez devised a way to psychologically torment the Gringo. He's smarter than his chimp face reveals. Construct a myth, a modern day El Dorado. Call it the country's most sought after and undeveloped beach hideaway. Keep the road void of transportation and ply the locals with free rum and illegal salsa mp3's. Tell them to instruct all foreigners that danger awaits, but the sea is near. And if they manage to reach the end of the road, they'll find the sign:

PLAYA MEDINA
COMING SOON

I considered turning around, maybe going back to all my new acquaintances and telling them how wonderful the beach was, and that today the government people were down there giving out free bags of cheetos. Oh, you haven't heard of cheetos, huh? Well, imagine a bag of potato chips, with ten times the flavor. If it's good enough for America's ghetto children, it's good enough for all y'all.

But my plan of counter-insurgency was foiled by Freddy Fedora's sister's place. A man made beach chairs two miles back, and now accommodation. The ocean was near. I couldn't waste anymore time though. If I didn't push on, night would come and that's when the wild monkeys start the pogroms. I saw a younger girl cleaning around the garden. Much too young to be Freddy's sister, or even daughter, but then again, in a culture where the average man has a new mistress every two to three years, who knows how late into life Freddy Fedora's poppa squired offspring.

Without stopping, I asked if she had any cold bottles of water.

She smiled, invited me to come sit down, have something.
"Sorry, I have to get to the beach."

"You're here. This is it."

I should have gotten angry. My scheming government hunch was correct. But I didn't. Cortez, Pizarro, Pol Pot. They didn't give up.

"I'm sorry, we don't have water, but we have a lot of different colas. Very cold."

I decided I could settle for some fresh juice. "Do you have any fresh juice, maybe some coconut water?"

"We have juice, yes. Not fresh, but it's in a can. Very good. Come and have one."

The last fresh juice in a can I bought in Venezuela actually said, "contains 3% real fruit juice." And the slogan was prominently displayed with pride.

Parched, but still alive, I continued.

The girl wasn't kidding. This was Playa Medina. Was I having mirages, hallucinations of paradise lost and found. I was like those Fountain of Youth explorers who finally decided that some small lake in Florida would suffice for their failed adventure but they would lie to their Iberian cousins since they weren't getting off their paella stuffed asses anytime soon.

The sign said:

Bienvenidos a Playa Medina

I made it. There was nothing resembling a body of water, or sand, but the sign declared my success. Like those tourists who spend two hours in the New Delhi airport, get an immigration passport stamp, and now feel they can talk about the complexities of Indian society. I was one of those. I could go back now. I did it!

How would I describe the beach to people? What about my treasure, my moment of explorer's bliss? My runner's high. What would I tell Chaz when I called?

The path continued. Up. To the sky. At this point, I deserved to walk to heaven. Up I went. The road was rockier than before. Uneven and rutted. I increased my pace. The posada was the last sign of life. If I ran fast enough, I'd wake up from my dream and be asleep on the beach, or, at least, I'd make it more difficult for the guerillas to attack. As I neared the top of my ascent, the road split again. One went down, and the other jogged sharply to the right. Finally. Down. This must be it. I knew an elevated ocean didn't exist. Here we go. At last.

I almost didn't see it. Another piece of agitprop. I wanted to ignore it. I wish I hadn't seen it. Chavez was winning. Imperialism was going down. Why would there me a sign pointing up. How could this not be the direction to the beach. I wouldn't succumb to socialist brainwashing. Americans don't follow directions. We do what we want. I'm going down.

That's when the guilt hit. Some call it the subconscious. Or instinct. Divine intervention. To me it was mental warfare, waged on behalf of this
anti-yankee obsessed government. Damn Chavez. I followed the sign.

Dejected, beat, and out of saliva, my head slung down like the boy who lost his chocolate bar in the sewer. I'd probably eat that bar at this point, but no matter. I was a prisoner of my own heritage. I belong to the United Party of Perfect Beach People, and I could do nothing to escape my destiny. At least I would die in peace, among the trees and lizard guano.

The mirage was back. The beach appeared again. More emerald than turquoise, but something was coming through the trees. I rubbed my eyes. Again. I walked faster. To a larger clearing. Motherfucker. That's a beach! Several hundred feet below was a bay fit for kings. That perfect crescent. Aha. Medina = Muslim = Crescent Moon = Sword = Death to the Infidel. Shitshit. I ate pork last night. I cursed Chavez. I didn't assfuck that donkey I saw earlier. I'm the perfect infidel. I looked around rapidly. Did they use IED's here, or would they come from the jungle, brandishing the swords of Mohamed? Clever Chavez, aligning himself with yet another one of our enemies.

With renewed vigor, the prize in sight, I started skipping. Something about skipping makes you smile. Try it. It's impossible to skip and be pissed off. You'll never see a pissed off skipper. Never. Even if they ambushed me, tried to permanently silence me about the end of the road, I would die happy. Skippers die happy.

The Highway to Medina started dipping. My pains were forgotten. There was a God. I was so happy. I skipped faster. I could see the palm trees. They were everywhere. The dream was coming true. All I needed was some classic rock and a few bikini clad blondes to jump out of a large freezer, and nirvana was mine, all without having to blow myself up. The blondes probably weren't virgins, but no problem. A little experience can't hurt.

I was about to tear my clothes off, and skip naked to the sea when I saw her. I put my pants back on, and approached her from behind. Not like that though. A little woman with a brightly patterned dress. Barefoot with a wicker basket on her head. She didn't hear me, and I didn't want the basket to fall if I scared her, but I had to talk to her.

I spoke up softly. "Hola. I walked here. All the way. From the highway. Yeah, can you believe it. Pretty far, huh? I'm not sure how far. Maybe 50 miles. Far. I did it! I walked here."

"Ok, you are here now but you shouldn't walk, it's dangerous."

"How did you get here?"

She laughed, the laugh of a woman not scared to hang with the boys, a hearty toothless laugh. She must have been eighty years old. Fifty-five without a life in the sun. "You think my husband dropped me off? I walked here too. Everyday. I come down here to sell sweetened fruit treats that I make in my house."

She spoke with sarcasm and a genuine smile. She could have been a pirate's wench. And she just left that basket on her head while we talked. How did she do that?

"Why weren't you scared of the danger? You are easier to jump, and probably more tasty for some of the locals."

"Ha. You think I'm an old lady. I'm tough, boy. Everybody knows me here. I have no problems."

We walked the last five minutes together, a sort of bittersweet time for me as she made good company, and had a sharp sense of humor for an elderly woman who walks miles with a basket of sweets on her head everyday. But my sense of pride was diminished. Maybe the beachfolk would think she helped me along the walk. She didn't! I'm a survivor! But nobody would believe me now.

The sand went all the way back to the mountains, filled in by a sea of palms. Through the labyrinth of trunks I saw somebody cooking. I ditched Baskethead and went straight for the cook.

There were three of them. A younger fit guy in his mid-twenties with a bunch of coconuts. A more realistic Jesus than the carpenter, graying in his long beard with a White Sox cap on flanked the petite female chef de cuisine.

What did we have today? A grilled seabass with mango chutney reduction on a bed of lightly toasted asparagus tips.
Organically raised dirt served raw over a generous amount of mucky seagrass. I'd eat her frying pan at this point.

"I have fish, plantains, and salad. For 35."

"What kind of fish is it?"

"Fish."

"Sure, fish, yep, I know that type. Ok. I'm going to drown myself for an hour, but if I make it out, I'll take one of your specials."

"No problem. Enjoy. Relax. Don't worry. I'm happy to serve you when you're ready."

Nice woman. Maybe it's the fish that's dangerous not the walk. We'll see.

There was one stand selling beverages. I could care less about competition in the marketplace at this point. I prayed he had water. But maybe we've been deceived in America. Like milk and q-tips. I could probably survive off these hot pink colas. All these people are alive without drinking water. Once again, America sells the snake oil. But Venezuela won't take the bait. I decided I'd settle for a neon yellow bottle I'd been eyeing for the last week. Probably loaded full of nutrients.

I didn't know the brand name so I ordered by description which sounded something like 'the soda that looks like nuclear waste'.

"I think we are out of that. We have cold water though."

"Nobody has water around here. Is this real water? Or some kind of sweetened clear beverage?"

"Yeah, we sell water. It's the foreigners like you who come here. They always want water."

If heaven had a taste, this was it. Tablet purified water bottled in a shack never tasted so damn fine.

"I walked here. I'm tired man. All the way from the highway. You know how far it is?"

"Eleven kilometers. That's a long walk. It's dangerous."

"Please. I made it fine. Why do people say it's dangerous? They are creating paranoia, spreading fear for no reason."

"Why is the White man so smart? You think you know? You've been here one day. You don't know. For us, who live here, no problem. It's very safe. But for a foreigner, it's a problem. They come by motorbike and look for people like you. White people. Then they rob them. A French guy came here last week, and when he got here he was crying."

"Well the French aren't exactly bastions of strength. World War Two. Men in tight jeans. Sarkozy."

"Doesn't matter. It could happen. You were lucky. You should take a mototaxi back."

"They are expensive. I'll look for a ride back. Somebody will give me one."

"You look around yet. There is only one group here today. One vehicle. That white bus over there. And I think it's full."

"Well, worst case, I'm moving into your hut here."

"Yeah, I understand. The price is high. But we are fighting inflation. Crazy inflation. Sometimes the prices rise weekly here. We are the only country in South America with this problem. It's this fuckin' government, and this liar Chavez. I voted for him the first time . I was full of hope, but not this. This is suppose to be a tourist destination, and we have no facilities, no good road, no security. Our currency is only available on the black market for foreigners. Our president spends more time giving money to Cuba than he does caring about our problems. He picks fights with America and then doesn't understand why other countries don't want to invest here. We're importing everything and making nothing. 2012. That's our hope. This man, this idiot has had twelve years and nothing is better here. He says he is helping the poor, but the people are suffering more now than before."

I know this guy could have continued for another hour, but I didn't have much daylight left, and the water was awaiting my christening. Normally, I love to pick the brains of guys like the water pusher, but now was not the time.

"I'm with you man. Socialism is always conducted for the good of mankind by the worst of mankind. It's a political failure. Long live Imperialism." And I skipped into the emerald escape.

If heaven offered a bath upon entry, a bath you had been waiting your entire well behaved life to have, then this was it. Palm trees, virgin forest, mountains, and that perfect half moon bay. Not a concrete dwelling or parking lot to be seen.

There are Playa Medinas around the world. I've been to a lot of them. Even resisted making calls to Chaz. What made this special? It had to be the walk. I could have found some travel agency in a larger city to arrange an air con van to take me here. Would have been a lot easier, quicker, and safer. Isn't that what the modern world affords us: easier, quicker & safer. Even if I took the overpriced motorcycle from the highway, it would have set me back four bucks. Was risking my life worth four bucks? Mankind has been through a lot to make my life easier. I have the fortune to be born to the majority race in the country with the most economic opportunity in the world. Why not execute that privilege, and arrive at this lovely paradise with more time in the day, less sweat, and less risk?

Because some people want to shut off the air conditioning and open the windows. Because on a walk, or a bike ride, I might find things that I would never notice in the car. Because an in- person conversation makes me feel a bit more human than a Facebook update. If there's not enough time in your life, you're not doing it right. A destination is meaningless without a journey. There are a thousand playa medinas in the world, and another thousand mountain tops. You want a photo of you posing in front of the temples of Machu Picchu? Why not crop one in using PhotoShop. It's not much different. The memories, the experience, they come from the trek, not the summit. Hikers understand this best. Otherwise they'd drive thirty minutes up the mountain instead of the four hour trail on the other side. And once again, this excursion to Atlantis reminded me of that.

But that poor kid in the pick up truck, the one I attempted to chew out in Spanish. Now I understood his 'more or less' answer when I asked about the truck coming here. We certainly didn't stop at the beach.

I thought I felt solidarity with the Blacks and other victims of discrimination. I mean, I'm a foreigner. I get stared at. I get ripped off. I thought this kid was playing with me. But is it possible a lot of people stare at me, and talk behind my back, and don't always respond to me because they're not accustomed to foreigners, especially those that speak their language with a thick imperialist accent. Is it wrong that a black resident in an all white neighborhood gets stared at? Does that mean the people don't like him, that they're out to get him, or just that he looks different than the others, like a girl with a tattoo of a bloody butterfly on her forehead? Is America racist because Mexicans decide to live in a neighborhood where other Mexicans live? Is the waiter a homophobe cause he ignores a table where a happenstance homosexual has been badgering the shit out of him for no reason? When will America finally wake up and realize that they don't have to call a careless driver a 'fuckin' spic'? A simple raceless, 'fuckin' asshole' will suffice.

Venezuela, despite it's multitude of perceived and actual problems, at least doesn't suffer from the race issue. Because here, the Blacks fucked the Indians, and the Indians fucked back, and the Whites fucked everybody. So it's not uncommon for a family to have a black son, a brown one, and a white one, all from the same parents. We killed off the Indians, isolated the Blacks, and thought we were an open society when Catholics started fucking the WASPS.

There were screams interrupting my tangent. I hate that. Just when I wanted to get into the intricacies of yellow fever amongst a certain class of educated effeminate white males, someone is yelling for me. I think.

There's a group of people dancing and playing in the water, about 100 yards away. They are the only other people in the water. And there's a lot of them. One guy is screaming at me and pointing out into the horizon. I think he sees a whale. I see something in the distance. I give a big smile and the thumbs up. I go back to my tangent. But he keeps yelling. They probably want me to pay more attention. I stop floating. I start looking around excitedly, pointing in the same direction, and then I splash water up in the air. Maybe that will mollify their screaming.
But it doesn't. I put the tangent down, and begin to swim over to them, but they are mock swimming back. That's not cool. They are doing bad swim imitations in the air, like a special olympics synchronized swimming team. I stop swimming. I want to return to my floating tangent. They are pointing out to sea again. Oh crap. It wasn't a whale. They lost a yellow ball. One of those cheap supermarket plastic things you find in the cages, the ones your parents always made you put back. I guess they bought one. Couldn't anybody in that group of forty swim? Were they testing me, cause my adventure was done for the day? How could a group of people that large come into the ocean, and not one person know how to swim? Maybe they were the group with the bus. I could be the hero and secure my ride home. I started to swim. But the wind and current were moving the ball faster than my strokes. It was probably two hundred yards away. I started to give up, but they were cheering me on, several of them doing that palsy style swim motion. Where were they along the walk? They could have spread out along the route, giving me marathon style encouragement. I pushed on. I could bring home the yellow ball. I wasn't going to be the cruel parent. Everybody should have the joy to play with one of those bouncy balls. But the ball kept moving, and the free market was winning. Four bucks. I'll take the mototaxi.

And as the market claimed another victory, I was off to fetch my tangent when they started screaming. Again. It was the muscle man with the coconuts. He was swimming out. The whole group of Jerry's kids was ignoring me. Not one still had faith in my ability. And the Man I forgot about rose up inside me. I wanted to bring home the Yellow Ball! I resumed swimming out to the horizon. And they corresponded with more cheers. The race was on. I had a headstart but CocoMuscles was gaining. He was coming freestyle, and I had been approaching with the granma doing morning laps style. I hated freestyle. It was the whole kicking and flailing at once. Too much coordination. But I had pride on the line now, and my very essence of manhood, not to mention four dollars. I could feel him graze my feet. I tried to kick harder, maybe stick him in the eyeball. I looked up, the ball must have been three hundred yards now. It slowly became a lost token of triumph. The Lack of Compassion parents winning once again. My competitor was giving up. And with his retreat went my desire to be a Man. We swam back to shore together. Breaststroke. The way real men swim. He looked over to the group of disappointed faces, who had grown quiet and solemn, and then he looked at me and said, "Evangelicos!" And laughed.

It's nice to know that even in the desolate confines of Venezuela, evangelicals have the same reputation as home. But I couldn't laugh. They may be my salvation ride out. Could I endure a bus full of evangelicals? I had to spend the four dollars now. I'd pay five if necessary.

The fish lady who cooked the type of fish known as fish cooked my fish. The coconut guy gave me a nut, free of charge. The fraternity of men. If I was a woman, I'd be jealous of his pecs and want to know where he got his tight trunks. But guys, we are sporting folk. A competitor is our friend. Especially when you both give up the big race.

The old lady who walks barefoot to the beach everyday to sell products from her head returned. She wanted a cigarette, and when she didn't find one, she asked to see my newspaper. Then she disappeared with it, off under the palms. I was reading that, you know.

The bearded guy with the WhiteSox hat came over next. Maybe he would take my shorts. He made jewelry. The kind you find at the beach. Earrings made of driftwood, and bracelets from leather and polished seeds. But he didn't try to sell me anything. Only had a few things to say.

"I'm not a Chavista. I thought he would change the country, help the people, but his government is using propaganda to deceive the people. The tourists have stopped coming here. Inflation is killing the country, and so are the delinquents. It's not a safe place anymore. There are good people in this country. But the corruption and lies of these bastards is destroying us."

"Hey, there are good people in America, but our government isn't exactly effective. That's why our number one news program is a nightly satire."

"We're not even clever enough to make a satire, man. I've been traveling around my country for over thirty years now. Man, I know every corner of this place. I tell you man, I probably spent a night in every village we have. It's a beautiful place. Really, man. Beautiful people. But it's the worst I've seen it, and the crime is unbelievable man. I'm telling you. Bad."

"Have you seen a lot of crime?"

"Well, I'm living here now. It's a tranquil place. But I've lived in the bigger cities, and been around. A lot."

I had to be more specific. "Have you been robbed, kidnapped, raped?"

"Yeah, once. I was on this beach. Far from here. It was late at night, and I knew sometimes punks hung out there. I should have known better. They stole all my stuff. Really sucked."

"So you've been robbed once in thirty plus years of traveling across this country?"

"Yeah."

Who reports the truth? The newspapers or the citizen? Why don't more people trust their own experience instead of the front page?

The meal was here. I'm surprised she didn't fry the plate. It was three bites until I discovered the entombed plantain. The salad was lost in a batter of mayonnaise. And the fish looked like some kid caught it with a makeshift pole on the river. To me, it tasted like The French Laundry. If there is a joy to be found in hunger, it's that everything tastes good.

The mototaxi guy had left, and the covered shack man closed up. If I wanted to catch my main bus later tonight, the Chosen Ones would be my only hope out of paradise.

I went up to some of the women to ask for a lift. I figure they would have more sympathy for a quitter. The men may still be harboring some hostility about losing their bouncy yellow ball. Plus, they're Christians. Who want YOU! "Hi. I'm stuck here. Spiritually. Can I get a ride?"
Denied. Denied again. They weren't exactly mean, but the bureaucracy was governmental. After five passive rejections, I went to the top. Without a driver, Christ couldn't help anybody.

The driver relaxed on a mattress under a Palm tree. Did he really bring a bed with him? I was going at him with the Poor Me Pity Plea. It had to work. Should probably be a free ride too.

As I leaned down to offer my hardship, the basket lady decided to join me. Perfect. With her wrinkles and barefeet, the driver would be begging to take me.
He thought it over, said something about the lack of seats, but then realized I was willing to stand. An affirmative verdict was coming when my walking associate blurted out, "he'll pay twenty."

I gave her the eyes of rage. "Hey, I'm a professional negotiator. I can handle this."

"What. I'm helping you. Pay twenty. You have a ride."

"Where's my paper you stole?"

"I didn't steal it. I still have it."

"Well I'm leaving and I don't have it back, so you stole it."

"I don't steal things. Here."

It was in a plastic bag full of old newspapers. What the...was she a hoarder? Is it a possible to hoard in a society where people have nothing to actually hoard? Why was she dragging a garbage bag full of newspapers?

"Can I take the first few pages? I will give you back the rest."

"I didn't read them yet. Fine. Take it."

So she ripped off the first eight pages and stuffed them in her garbage bag that she dragged along with the basket on top of the head. The fact that she actually looked like a baglady was not lost on me. The basket made her more resourceful.

"Do you have a cigarette for me?"

At her age, she could use crack if she wanted. But I still didn't find a pack of cigarettes in my coconut.

I looked back to the driver. He agreed, about the ride not the crack. I was hoping without the cover charge.

The bus was already filling up. I waited by the doors until everybody was on so I wouldn't take anybody's seat. But the remaining passengers wouldn't board. They stood in a circle around me.
All had those good Christian faces you find wearing ties and skirts, walking around your neighborhood, knocking on doors, inviting you to a free lunch. An older gentleman my father's age stood beside me. And he may have been the one person more white than me. Germanic, probably. Maybe he was the American. The international evangelicals always have some founding American pastor. But he spoke to me in Spanish.

"Why do people think we come from monkeys? How can we come from monkeys? The bible says where it is that we come from."

I wasn't going to lose the ride. Obviously Adam was the first man. He would never have a name like Nguku or Xiang. It's only a natural we are created from one of our own ribs. Monkeys. Ha. Never.

"Yes sir."

"I'm asking you, I want to know why is it that they say we come from monkeys?"

He had bright red cheeks, puffed full of wisdom. He smiled, the smile of a man who knows the answers to his own questions.

"They are fools sir. How can we come from monkeys?"

And they all laughed, saying in creepy unison, "How can we come from monkeys?" And continued that knowing laugh.

The Nazi child refugee spoke up again. "If we are from monkeys, then why don't we live in the jungle? Why do we walk on two legs? Do I look like a monkey? Who says we are from monkeys?"

"The fools sir. The infidels."

"Yes, you see, our visitor here knows something. But let me ask you, where do your parents come from, or where do there parents come from? Are they monkeys?"

The gathering group of faces all looked at me. "My grandmother is definitely not a monkey sir. But she eats a lot of bananas and sometimes goes to the bathroom where she wants."

"Ok, and her parents, were they monkeys?"

"I never met them so I can't tell you for sure Sir."

"I want to know. Were the parents of your grandparents monkeys?"

"Most likely not sir."

"And their parents, the parents of your grandparents parents?"

"If you don't consider Jews monkeys than no. No sir."

"No, no. We are from the Jews. They are not monkeys. It says right there, in the Book, that we are created from the rib. Why do they say we are from monkeys?"

Crap. This was going to be a long ride. Is there a right answer? Do I let the old white man answer everytime, the way those that feign intelligence expect? Do I break down and cry, and then start speaking in tongues?

I didn't have to answer. The bag and baskethead lady was back. But before she could ask for another cigarette or take the Evangelical Daily, the cherubic pasty spoke up again, this time in the direction of one who was certainly in Jesus' circle of vagrancy.

"Why do we come from monkeys? Why are they saying we come from monkeys?"

The crowd's growing eyes turned to face it's newest victim. The bag and basket lady was ready. Her face changing from the smiling sarcastic woman I met earlier to one of rage.

"We are not from monkeys. We can not be from monkeys. God created Adam and Eve...

And the old man leader spoke up, "Haha. You see. She knows. This lady knows the truth." And his minion nodded approvingly. "And.."

"And this was the work of God."

"Do you see brothers and sisters, this is someone who knows the word. Continue our new friend, please continue"

Did I not know the word? Was I going to have to out-Amen the baglady? I was prepared to crucify her if it got me on the bus.

Her eyes were falling out of her head now. She looked angry. "GOD wanted to make US in HIS image. This was the plan..."

Interrupting again, the main interrogator is lit up, his face beaming with joy, his soul affirmed by this wrinkled token of sanity. "Go on. Tell us. Tell us." And the crowd was closing in on her. Ready for it. Ready for the full history.

"GOD did this. HE is responsible. HE is who did it."

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

"GOD then had an orangutan rape Eve to punish her for eating the apple. Eve had the child of an orangutan. EVE DID THIS. WE ARE FROM THE ORANGUATAN. WE ARE NOT FROM MONKEYS. ALL OF YOU. ALL OF US. WE ARE ORANGUATANS."

He still had on a smile, and asked, "Are you serious?"

"SERIOUS, AM I SERIOUS? YES. This is what GOD DID TO US. I'm NOT going to believe in a man who CREATES US from ORANGUATANS. HE has PUNISHED US."
The group tried to respect the older woman, and tried to change the subject, but she kept screaming, "WE ARE FROM THE ORANGUATANS. THIS IS WHAT GOD DOES TO US"

One of the men who was unable to swim for the yellow ball is taking her things and attempting to prod her onto the bus. But she is resisting, trying to take back her things, demanding that she'll walk. But the Christians have other plans for her. She's on her way to Bible Boot Camp and she knows it. The incapable swimmer is now dragging her, despite her protests and shouts of "oranguatan, we are cursed from the oranguatan!"

I didn't know if I should laugh or intervene. Finally Bag & Baskethead rustled free, grabbed her bag and basket, and fled up the hill on foot. That's a woman determined to walk. Maybe she was the direct descendant of chimps.

As we began to board Our Holy Father's large white station wagon, I came to realize that this was my day of Reckoning. A life of blasphemy in the name of spirituality brought me to these people. Secretly, unconsciously, I was ready for a life in service of Christ. The singing, the field trips, the knocking on doors, the excessive fooling around without penetration. I was ready to submit.

A hairless faced boy, eighteen or so, turned to me, his smile revealing early age orthodontics. His eyes widened with power imparted from The Saviour, and his high pitched Spanish demanded, "How can we come from monkeys? Are we monkeys? Are we not from man created by God?"

Were they ever going to change the topic, maybe ask about abortion or stoning?

"We are not from monkeys. The elderly woman outside says we are from orangutans."

The bus united in laughter, an almost diabolical laughter. They all chanted 'orangutans' in mock unison, before putting forth another hearty laugh.

The straight tooth smiling youth pastor in training took the energy of the crowd, and raised his voice one more octave, "Monkeys! Monkeys! Are we from monkeys? How can we be from monkeys! Does she look like a monkey? Are you a monkey?"

Firmly believing in the fallacy of evolution, I shouted, in my best and loudest Spanish, "WE ARE NOT FROM MONKEYS!"

The crowd roared. One teenage girl stood up from the rear to cheer. The pubeless pastor went with the energy.
"We are not from monkeys. We are humans. Created in His likeness. Jesus Christ is our Saviour and the monkeys are STILL monkeys!"

A barefoot man, brown skinned with greasy hair, stood up by the driver, and began to play a melodic tune on the guitar. "They saaaaaaay that weeeee are frooooom monkeys, they saaaaaay weeeee are frooooom monkeys, but the childrennnnnn of Christ know, weeeeee are froooom him, frooooom HIM, thank yoooooou Lord, oh thank yooooou Lord, for creating usssss...."

I had to clear my mind of monkeys. I couldn't help think what the Hanuman people of India would think of this tribe of anti-primates. The song went on, the lyrics repeated for those still in doubt. I used the distraction to scan the bus. There were several young blossoming women under twenty-five. Were they all really virgins, the vagina sealed until a man promises before God to love there vagina until death? Surely, there was one who violates, or has violated, or would like to be violated? The one with the funky glasses, and yellow skirt. I bet she veered from the Christian Pop, probably took in some Justin Timberlake or somebody. Maybe she was one of these notorious Christian 'Everything But' girls. Kissing, Handspanks, nippleslurping, anus ringing. In the eyes of a literal Lord, these were not violations. She was definitely down.

And the boys, how could they not be weighed down by swollen balls of seminal fluid. Singing, dancing, taking field trips with all these young women. If they weren't at least nocturnally emitting in the dormitory bunkers, the pain of walking would be unbearable.

A man interrupted me. Pulled me back from those illicit thoughts. It was my first interrogator. The son of nazi emigres, the one I affectionately called 'my brother.' He was pointing to my shorts. "We are taking you with us today because it is God's will. Today you are with us, and we are praying you remain with us...

Shit. This really was it.

"And we will help you. We do not wear the shorts like you have. This is not God's way. The bible prohibits it. But today we accept you."

"Have you been to Canaan in the summertime? Why would God care if man exposed his shins? Look, I know I have skinny calves, not very masculine, but should I be punished for this?"

"This is not for us to question. It is written by God."

I had to be careful. If they kicked me off the bus now, I'd be stuck back on the road to nowhere, nightfall less than an hour away.

"Ok. Yes sir."

"And we are making ourselves in the image of Our MAKER. This is why the women wear skirts."

"Was a God a transvestite?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why would God wear a skirt?"

"He didn't wear a skirt. He directed that women wear skirts. That they should not wear the pants. A woman should not be revealing the shape of her body."
"I wish you would tell that to some of the pudgy Puerto Rican women in my neighborhood who insist on wearing spandex shorts to the supermarket. I know God would not have approved."

"Absolutely. A woman can not wear shorts."

"I am still confused. Help me, please. In the time of the Bible, shorts and pants didn't even exist. There were still women in loin cloths."

"This is what the Bible says. We follow it's rules."

He then pointed to my hair. "And the Bible tells us that men can not have hair below their ears."

"I can put my hair up in a pony tail."

"But it will still go below HIS order. You can NOT deceive HIM."

"Jesus had hair like mine, actually, I think, it was probably a bit longer. Not as nice. Look at my waves, and natural highlights. Definitely an improvement."

"HE says that upon the death of Jesus, that no man shall have long hair again. The hair shall be cut just below the ear."

"Jesus accepted everybody. Why would he have a problem with men who aped his hairstyle. On the contrary, he would probably feel like Rick Springfield or that guy from the 90210 tv show, proud to be leaders in a new fashion."

A voice interrupted our conversation. I turned around, from my seat in the front, to see the entire bus, forty people, all staring right at me. The eyes of the Lord were bearing down on me. The walk was still far. Another fat man spoke up. More hispanic this time. He took on the oratory style of preacher. He was clearly preparing to take over the reigns when the Deutschland poppa croaked from monkey caca. Spittle left his mouth as he spoke, his spanish littered with a lack of proper education.
The bible was open on his lap, and he tried to not read from it.

"And she shall wear no clothes which reveal her form. And he shall dress in modesty and respect." Spittle.

"Yes."

"And no man shall have hair below the neckline. And no woman shall have hair above the neckline."

"Yes."

"These are teachings that we must follow."

"Yes."

The cultish eyes of the bus locked on me, like a KKK rally in Harlem. Would they cut my hair on the bus? Could somebody at least feather it?

The spittling man continued to rant, moving on from dress codes to the differences between their church and others.

"Do you know the difference between us and the others?"

I wanted to say 'one chromosome.' But I obediently replied, "No."

"They say the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are three. We say they are one."

It was like telling a blind person that blue and yellow make green. But again, I responded with obedience. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

Shit. I was afraid of this. What do I say?
"Yes, I understand."

"What do you understand?"

Damn. Bastard. He knows my tricks. "That all three are one and not separate."

He accepted my answer and moved on to another topic. I had trouble following. His Spanish was an unreceptive television trying to tune, but in the end, the roving lines continued to only reveal a nipple and a foot.

He demanded answers. Instinctively, I threw out another 'yes.'

"Yes what?"

"Can you please repeat the question Sir?"

He was ranting about the son of the devil and the son of god. I couldn't understand anything else in between. The question came again. "Son of God" I answered.

"Son of God, what?"

Motherfucker. This guy was a genuine motherfucker. Did he really need complete sentences. Wasn't it enough that I let you lunatics hijack my soul for an hour? Couldn't I doze off, just for a few minutes without hearing anymore preaching?"

He repeated, "The Son of God and what?"

"The son of God. Not the son of the devil. I would choose the son of god. We are the son of god. If you choose to be the son of the devil you must return. Return at once from the evil of the devil. We are created from his likeness. We are not from monkeys. We do not reveal our form. We are all from the son of god."

Three different people were clapping. Others were smiling. They were eating it up. I had a future here after all. One woman stood up from her chair, almost flipped from a pothole, and shouted, 'he's with us,' which brought on more cheers.

My Inquisitor only allowed a stern, 'OK.'
And he continued. Again, I became lost in his spittle, dreading the question. It was high school English redux. Why would I read Wuthering Heights? Couldn't we read Larry Bird's biography? But Mr. Crawford would still call on me. You learn to interpret from the back of novels.
"And what would YOU say to that?"

"We are the SON OF GOD. We are NOT the son of the devil. We are not from monkeys. We are not from orangutans. We are here for HIM. WE ARE GOD'S CHILDREN."

Again, my fans rose to applause. A new woman, wearing a faded orange second hand American t-shirt, shouted, "He's with us."

And more cheers. Laughter. Applause. I could do this, I thought. Being an evangelical is so much easier than being a Mason. Maybe I would start my own chapter.

The Inquisitor was still not satisfied. "Ok. Corinthians twenty-two five tells us..."

Lost. He spoke, and my mind went to the gutter. Wuthering Heights continued. I slept with my eyes open until the next question appeared. Another monkey retort followed, which begat more cheers and led to the next reading and question.

Abruptly, he changed direction. I only knew this cause I heard the word Indiana and Kentucky. I knew those things. I remembered those. The trance was ending. Hey, I'm American. Those are my people! "Yes, yes."

"We have brothers there."

"Are they illegal? Do you want me to bring them something?"

"They are your brothers."

"I only have one sister."

"You have brothers too. They are the founders of our church. Close to you. Indiana."

Now my memory was coming back. Rural America. They brought the world Bush and primate Christianity.
"Yes, of course, Indiana. Yes. I know them. It."

"You will visit them for us. We have many brothers around the world."

"And none of them come from monkeys!"

They ate it up, banana and all. Even the Inquisitor roared at that one.

Somebody started talking about dinner, and for a moment, the attention strayed from the skinny white boy built in the likeness of Cristo.

I met a nineteen year old in the projects of Medellin, Colombia last month. A young guy getting ready to apply to university. He wanted to study photography. We spent the day together after meeting on the metro. He was from one of the roughest neighborhoods in Medellin, and he thanked the Church for saving him. His life was dedicated to Christ. He had a mohawk and a couple of earrings. He wore skater shorts. He never talked to me about religion, didn't care what I did. He only brought it up when I asked. He didn't drink, do drugs, or get involved in the rampant gangs. But he was his own individual, one of the most unique people I met in that country. He wandered the city talking to strangers, not about Christ, but about their lives, taking their photos and getting more lost in his city. He was an example of how religion can help people. He showed me that the Church wasn't always made up of evangelizing crackpots. In a choice between street gangs and God, he made the right choice, and knew it was a personal one, regardless of what others chose. He still had friends in the gangs. We met a few.

"What? How do you think it should be?"

Crap. The Inquisitor was bearing down again. There were only so many words on the back of the book cover.

"Monkeys. We are not from monkeys. We have chosen the son of god. I will cut my hair!"

Applause. Laughter. Fists went up. I saw them way in the back where the bad kids like to sit.

I drifted off. Socialism isn't a bad idea. Why shouldn't everybody have equal and affordable access to health and education, to pensions and employment opportunity? Can't an individual be allowed to create the life he wants for himself without government taking it away from him? These two things are not contradictory. Western Europe has proved this for decades. Why does Chavez want the people to believe capitalism is evil, and that you are either with his program or against it? Why would a man who claims to love all his people, to want to better their situation spend time dividing the country? Why can't he put protections in to protect the general public while allowing those that want to prosper to do such? Would Jesus have really cared if you didn't want to follow him? Would he ostracize you? Would he punish? Wouldn't a biblical GOD let you do what you wanted, and how you wanted, as long as you could avoid murder and theft, adultery and transfats?

I could tell I was getting close to civilization. It was the town of Rio Caribe. My bus left from here. I would be at the main plaza soon.

"Stay with us. We have a place for you here. And food. We will be traveling to other parts of Venezuela, visiting our brothers. We will take care of you. Your money is no good here."

They knew me. They were tempting me. It was a challenge from none other than our Master. I had to be strong. Somebody here knew I was a frugal bastard who loved to travel. I could save some money, travel longer. Why not?

"I'm sorry. I can't. My bus is leaving soon and my mother is waiting for me in the next city. She came here to see me. Otherwise I would."

Disappointment was evident. I was hurting them. They were my new family.

"We don't even know your name."

"Seth"

The original Inquisitor, the jolly white man with the spectacles, he responded immediately. "Do you know who you are?"

Another metaphysical riddle to the nature of our existence? But this was one riddle I knew the answer to. "I am the third son of Adam and Eve. I was put here to make up for the sin of my brother Cain. I am here today for you!"

He smiled a big Santa smile, and gave me a one arm man hug. He then turned around to repeat for the bus. There was a brief silence, and then loud cheers filled the bus. The Plaza Bolivar was approaching but the driver wasn't slowing down. I had a family here. They would provide for me. There were beautiful women to take for my wives, swallow my seed and bare my children. I would never be in need. This the life God wanted for us.

The bus was passing the plaza. I stood up from the front of the bus. The guitar player moved from the aisle. I turned around slowly, purposefully to face my minion. Jaws opened slightly. Even the grueling Inquisitor was looking at me with great expectation.

"WE ARE NOT FROM MONKEYS!!!!!" I shouted.

It was Live at The Apollo Theatre. They were in the aisles. I saw tears in one woman's eyes. Really. Girls in the back broke out in song. The guitar man picked up his instrument. Couples were hugging.

The plaza was packed with vendors and families enjoying the late afternoon. I motioned for the driver to stop. Before the excitement let up, I waved to the crowd. We blew kisses at each other, and I as I stepped off the bus, it's wheels still turning, I turned from my new family, and began running away, directly through the central plaza, shouting, "Evangelicos!"

They knew. And they laughed as loud as my new monkey friends.