by Mykel Board
ENTRY
THIRTEEN
Nov
15, 2013- Nov. 23, 2013
AND
THEY CRAWL UP YOUR WHAT?
[Recap:
From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went
right... always a bad sign. Nothing portends disaster like
everything going right.
Easy
subletter in New York, smooth flight to Miami, promises of “meet
you at the airport/seaport” for the whole trip. $10 a night
accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.
Uh
oh! Too good. The better the news before, the bigger the fall later.
And things get worse. (Better) The Miami trip goes so smoothly you
could cry. The only problem was a lot of rain-- heavy rain. The
streets were rivers. There were waves in the pool. I got wet. Very
wet.
Then
on to North Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport,
take me around drinkin'. Then, I move South to San Fernando T'dad...
have some fun adventures, meet a Goddess... er... Empress of a girl.
Go back to the airport and fly to Guyana.
In
Guyana, my facebook friends from KEEP
YOUR DAY JOB! meet me at the airport. From there, we go to
Jamal's. This is the only time I have to pay for a place to sleep: 15
days for $150US. Not bad. No, it doesn't go perfectly. But it goes,
and I meet some great people in the country. My trip to Kaiteur
Falls in the jungle is literally (741 feet) a high point.
The
two weeks of my stay in Guyana were adventure-filled, and
beer-dulled. Most days, it rained. Sometimes for just an hour or two
in the afternoon. Sometimes all day.
“I
don't get it Mykel,” Jamal tells me. “This isn't the rainy
season.”
The
plan is to travel to Suriname with Keep Your Day Job! I'll be
a roadie! Mykel tours with a band... again. Yowsah! But, uh oh... a
drummer problem. (Hard to imagine, huh?) Two drummers had agreed to
tour with them. One, a close friend, the other, more PUNKROCK. They
ditch the friend for the punkrocker. He bails at the last minute. (A
punkrocker baling? Hard to imagine, huh?) The now former-friend does
not answer emails. I cannot play drums. This cannot work out. We go
to Suriname anyway. It works out.
In
Suriname, I stay with a punkrock student and his super-generous
parents. I mention a local synagogue; they arrange a tour. I mention
a trip to “the interior,” bang, we're there... surveying monkey
meat. When dad can't do it, they get the poor son, Jose, to chauffeur
me around, as if he doesn't have enough with schoolwork and his own
band, ADHD. I can see
he hopes for rain... It's an excuse to stay home. Often, there is
rain.
Then
it's on to French Guyana. There, Florian, the brother of one of my
top ten pals, Simon, lives with his girlfriend Marie.
So
it's off to FRENCH GUIANA. I take a small boat there. The captain
lets me choose “legal or backtrack?” I choose legal. Once landed
at immigrtion, I annoy the white immigration officer by asking for a
passport stamp. They give it to me and try to hustle me away. I'm as
hungry as shit and don't know where I am.
What
happens? My hostess Marie meets me on the road, helps me negotiate a
ride with a French Guianan truck driver, and gets me to her place.
Smooth as a baby's ass. The first morning is a crepe breakfast. Then
a dip in the pool, then I donno. Everything is spot on... except that
it's raining.]
I
forgot to mention, THE CURSE.
I knew it was coming. This is, after all, the life of MYKEL BOARD...
Things cannot go well. And too much has gone well to start with. It's
like that trip to the countryside in Mongolia. Everything arranged...
free even (a trade for English lessons). A day of Gobi Desert/Altai
mountain horseback riding-- Mongolian style-- then a night in a real
Mongolian ger.
What
an adventure it will be! Then I find out the Mongols use wooden
saddles. I can't walk right for a week.
FLASH
TO 2013: The ORIGINAL plan was for Florian and Marie to meet
me at the boat terminal and drive me to their house. But... THE
CURSE! The car broke down just before I got there. That's why I had
to walk to my hosts' house. But, I DIDN'T have to walk. I was saved.
Driven on a truck by one of the fine natives of French Guiana. Oh no!
When is it going to hit?
My
first breakfast in St.
Laurent du Maroni: That morning (as will be the usual case)
breakfast at home: crepes today.
“What
should I put in them?” I ask Marie.
“Whatever
you like,” comes the answer.
“I
don't know how to make them,” I say. “You tell me.”
“Whatever
you like,” comes the answer.
So
I put in some jam, some fruit preserves some chicken bits, some pork.
And the laughing starts.
Marie
laughs. Laughs harder. “You put pork and jam together?”
“You
said put in what ever you like,” I answer.
“Florian!”
she yells. “Mykel made a crepe with pork, chicken and jam!” Then
she laughs more.
Florian
laughs. “Jam and pork and chicken!!!” He says and laughs, nearly
spitting.
“It's
my religion,” I lie. “It requires meat whenever we have something
sweet. It's called שקר
של החזיר.
If I don't do it, G-d (actually I say GEE-DASH-DEE) will send his
Angel of Death® to punish me.”
That
shuts them up. The crepes are delicious.
After
breakfast, the pair has to leave to go teach. I'm on my own for the
day.
“Mykel,”
says Marie. “Florian has left already. We need two of our bicycles,
but there is an extra one. Here is the key to the lock.”
She
hands me a keychain with three keys on it.
“One
key is for the bicycle lock. One key is for the back door. And one
key is for the front door,” she says. “I have to leave now, but I
think you'll be able to figure it out.”
I
thank her as she leaves. Then I remember that I haven't ridden a
bicyle in 10 years.
“Fuck
it,” I think. “It's all in muscle memory. Riding a bicycle is
like... like... like riding a bicycle. Just get on, it'll all come
back.
I
do. It does.
It
is an ordeal getting out of the neighborhood. That construction site,
for example. Right in front of the little development. But after
that, the road into town is one straight shot.. a breeze, right? I
turn the corner.
Hmmm,
this seat is a bit tough. Not like a usual bicycle seat, more like...
I donno, I'll think of it in a minute.
It's
a mountain bike, with more gears than a Spirograph.
The problem? They don't work. So I'm stuck in third. Kinda tough
uphill. Downhill's a breeze. (Wouldn't ANY gear be a breeze
downhill?) The trip to town is mostly uphill.
It's
about 2 miles. After the first, it hits me. And then hits me again.
It's the Mongolian horse! This bicycle is the Mongolian horse. The
same wooden seat. The same slapping. The same pain... it only gets
worse.
By
the time I reach town, I can't take it anymore. Actually, I can't
take it anymore way BEFORE I reach town... but I have no choice. Once
inside, I dismount and walk... in the rain.
The
town is interesting, but seems devoid of restaurants... or at least
cafes or snacking places. Come on! This is France! I should be able
to get my pan with foie gras. Ou est ma petite boulangerie? And it's
raining.
RULE
Number 32 for International Travel:
When
in a strange city, and it's
1.
Raining
and
2.
Afternoon or later
Stop
into a bar, ask the locals what to drink, and make some new friends.
There
are no bars. Maybe I'm just in the wrong part of town.
Actually,
I like the town. It's interesting, laid out with the ocean on one
side the river-border with Suriname on the other. Some of the
buildings are old colonial-looking, but with Caribbean colors. A
beautiful mix.
There
are a couple parks by the ocean. By the river is what looks like a
penal colony... a huge area fenced in with a thick metal fence. Near
it is a tourist center. I pick up some free stuff, and a bottle of
something alcoholic. Then, it's off to the Shopping Mall... the only
place I know I can eat. I have a sandwich and buy some beer for the
house.
The
walking gives me some relief from the anal agony. I've moved from
torturous down to simple torment. Ah, what a relief!
I
stop in a bookstore. “Vous avez quelque chose en anglais?” I ask.
The
proprietor, a gray-haired man who looks like a fat
nice professor, shakes his head, shrugs and says Je suis
désolé. That, I can understand.
The
sun lowers in the sky. I'm taking the crew out to dinner tonight, so
I have to get back. Get back! Oh no! It means riding that bicycle
again.
The
pain! THE PAIN!! I don't
think I can make it. The trip to town was all uphill. The trip BACK
is also all uphill. How is that possible????
My
lower cheeks are so raw it hurts to think about them. I try to stand
and pedal, but the seat is too high. If I stand, I squash my gonads.
If I sit, it's a bloody gluteus. I opt for the trade.
GONADS-GONADS-GONADS-GLUTEUS-GLUTEUS-GLUTEUS-GONADS-GONADS-GLUTEUS-GLUTEUS-GONADS-GLUTEUS-GONADS-GLUTEUS...
I'm gonna die!
I
don't die.
As
soon as I get back, I head for the shower. I crouch under the running
water, on all fours, with the full cool flow trained on my tattered
tush. I run cool water over my netherparts. It's isn't long (enough)
before I hear
“Mykel!
Mykel! Are you here?”
“I'll
be right out!” I shout, standing up, shutting off the water, and
wrapping a towel around my waist.
Marie
is in the livingroom.
“Are
you okay, Mykel?” she asks. “It's a strange time to take a
shower. I hope I didn't...” she searches for the word...
“interromps ce que vous faisiez.”
For
once I wasn't doing THAT!
FLASH
AHEAD: To thank my hosts in my couch-surfing life, I like to
take them out to eat. It's a way to get to know the local cuisine,
and say thanks at the same time. I always allow them to chose the
restaurant. Tonight there's going to be another guest, Alec, an
interesting French guy who lived off the coast of Africa for 10
years. My kind of company.
Not
only will Alec be our excellent dinner companion, he'll be giving us
a car! I shit you not. He just lets us use his car for a few days to
drive all over... experience French Guiana life... and what a life it
will be. Of course I'll treat him to dinner too.
So
we plan that second night's dinner. I can picture in my mind exactly
what's going to happen.
“Where
should we go?” I'll ask.
“Anywhere
you want to go?” will come the response.
“You
live here!” I'll say, “I don't know what's around here. Where
should we go?”
“The
shopping mall,” I'll say
There
will be laughter.
I'll
have to make something up.
I'm
wrong.
They
know exactly where to go. In my wildest imagination, I couldn't have
created this place.
As
we enter the main room, we're shown a nice table in the back, under a
thatched roof. I sit on the bench in front of a table... and stand
quickly.
“Ouch!”
THE PAIN!
I
fold my jacket and put it on the bench beneath my battered buttocks.
Sitting
gingerly, I check out the menu options.
Oh
yeah! My kind of restaurant. So much to choose from. A rat, an
armadillo, an unnamable, a dog-pig, a wolf-pig or a chipmunk. So many
rodents, so little time. The solution? We need to order one of
everything and just share.
“I'm
sorry,” the waitress tells us, “we're out of Cochon Bwa.”
Shit,
there goes the wolf-pig. The rest of us pick one each from the
picture menu. Here's the Tatou, even better than it looks! Everything
tastes terrific! Waddaya expect? It's FRENCH
Guiana.
This
is us at dinner. With Alec, the guy who loaned us his car!
Dinner
is a fascinating combination of weird food, and stories about a
decade off the coast of Africa and life now in French Guiana. I love
these people. I could sit and listen to them all night... if I could
only SIT.
After
dinner, we plan to drop Alec at his house and head back to
Florianville. We pile in the car. It's raining. I roll up the window.
It doesn't roll. Marie turns on the wipers. They don't wipe. The car
jerks along like it's got fewer gears than the bicycle.
But
it's a car, and Alec gave it to us. And beggars can't blah blah.
Okay, it's bad luck. But is it bad enough to relieve THE CURSE??? I
don't think so. The people are too nice, and the car at least WORKS.
Something BIG has got to happen.
“You'd
better get some sleep,” Florian tells me. “Tomorrow is the canoe
trip. You'll need your full power.”
“Thanks
for the info,” I tell him. “I'm looking forward to it... Can I
stand up in the canoe? I don't know if I'll be ready to sit.”
He
smiles and shakes his head. “I don't think so,” he says, “but
you will have a chance to get into the water. It's a better swim than
our pool.”
I
go upstairs and check out the internet. See what I can find out about
our swamp adventure.
Ah,
here's a story about The
Toothpick Fish found in the freshwater areas around the Amazon.
It's not really a fish, but an... er... interesting parasite.
 |
| The head and teeth of a TOOTHPICK FISH |
It
likes to swim up the urethra and lodge itself inside. Getting rid of
it requires a delicate and painful operation. I don't think I'll be
going into the water.
This
is getting long (TNWSS). And there's so much to tell. Of all the
countries on this trip, I spend the LEAST time in French Guiana...
but I do the most!
How
'bout a lesson in Nenge Tongo? A mudbath carnival? A trip to the
bush? A jailcell where Papillion languished, carving his penname into
the concrete? A Hmong village? A marketplace with fruit that looks
like body parts?
As
for the canoe trip through the most dangerous swamp in South America?
Take a look at this:
You'll
just have to stay tuned for the details.
-end-
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