The $300 Nap: Part II

The smell of rotting garbage fills my nose. I feel slightly nauseous, like you might feel when you read American polical news.

My chest and belly itch from peeling skin and more mosquito bites than skin surface. Venezuelan food... what's the technical term... sucks. Imagine if everything were served on under-baked gritty Thomas's English muffins. Your choice of fillings: sour cheese, tasting like Elmer's glue, or carne mecharne... pulled meat barely spiced with something a combination of honey and Heinz catsup.

It's not that the diet is unvaried. There's lots of choice. You have the bland arepas. The too sweet, pancake-like cachapa:

With your choice of fillings, all equally nauseating. There are tons of other local dishes... all bad.

I'm a pretty adventurous eater. There's not much I don't down with gusto. Snake, guinea pig, piranha. You name it. I've eaten it.

But right now, my appetite is on the corner of Bleecker and Houston St. Left home to lighten the load.

The trouble is, my host mom, cooks me breakfast. Two arepas every morning. One cheese. One meat. This morning, I had to sneak half the meat one with me into the bathroom. Down the toilet. I grunted a bit to camouflage the move. I just couldn't bear it.

I wonder if I'll lose weight here, eating 1 meal a day. Maybe I'll gain weight, since I'm not getting any exercise other than walking with my computer.

******

I continue the next day. September 1. Labor Day in theU.S.

I sit and write, trapped. My host family is gone to I donno where. Because of security here you need a key to get in and out. A key... what am I talking about? Five. Ten. Dozens.

To leave the apartment building and complex you need:

1. A key to the apartment door (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

2. A key to the metal gate just outside the door. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

1. A key to the gate protecting the alcove of 2 apartments on the left side of the elevator. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

2. An electronic key to in order to operate the elevator

The key
<--- The elevator panel -->

5.An electronic key to leave the building through the main entrance. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)

6. An electronic key to leave the building grounds... It opens the outside gate. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)
7. An electronic key to leave the entire apartment complex. (key necessary from both sides-- enter and leave)
And if there's a fire? I don't want to think about it. It's all electronic! So many things can go wrong with electronics. It's not a simple key in a simple lock. I don't want to think about it.

[Note for non-writers: The two lines above are called foreshadowing. They are strategically placed so that when something happens later, the reader is prepared, or at least has some kind of reference. An oh-yeah-he-mentioned-that-before-now-I-get-it.]

So my hosts are gone. Not home. I'm trapped. Can't leave. They gave me an e-key. It's not enough. I can't get out of the front door, let alone the two gates before the elevator. Okay, I'll just sit here and write. Wait for them to return.

Back to the chronology. Where were we?

Ah yes, going through the glass doors.

SHORT RECAP: I leave Trinidad for Venezuela on three hours sleep. I made an internet reservation for one night in a Caracas hotel. I need the sleep – and I need something to tell immigration. I can't say I'm going to crash on the sofa at the punk house, can I?

Before I leave the Caracas airport, I plan to do four things.

1. Eat lunch.

2. Buy an English-Spanish dictionary (I have so many at home! Forgetting to bring one is like forgetting to bring water on a mountain hike!)

3. Change a little money at the official rate. Probably by using an ATM. The rest, I'll change with the punk rockers in town.

   [ASIDE: I don't remember the details. But there's a section in Catch 22 where a character buys eggs for $3, sells them for $2 and makes a profit. I think about it as I hear the details of the Venezuelan black market.

Here's how it works: If an American changes money at a bank, she gets from 1.95 to 2.1

Bolivars to a U.S. dollar. If she changes it on the black market, she gets 3 Bolivars to a U.S.

dollar. If Venezuelans want to buy dollars, they go to the bank and pay 2.15 Bolivars for one

dollar.

Here's the problem: How do the black marketeers make money? They pay MORE for

illegal dollars than they'd pay legally at the bank. Where's the profit?

Leave your guess as a comment here, and I'll reveal the answer in my next blog entry. ]

4. Buy a SIMS chip for my cellphone, so I can make local calls at lower prices.

After taking care of one through four, I plan to take the bus to the subway in the city, and walk to the hotel.

The plane arrives in Caracas about 8:30AM. I pass through immigration and customs. It's suspiciously easy, if commonly unfriendly. On the way out, I have to walk through a large sliding glass panel. On the other side of the panel are two uniformed men.

One points to me. The other takes my back pack, which I am now rolling.

“You speak English?” he asks.

I nod.

“Where are you going?” he says.

“I'm going to my hotel,” I tell him. “Hotel La Floreta.”

He leads the way, away from the sliding panel. Carrying my bag. Tight grip.

“I want to get money from the bank. From a machine.” I tell him, pegging him for a customs agent, trying to entrap me.

“The machines only give you 1.95 Bolivars for each dollar,” he says. “I give you three por un dollar.”

“I'd rather go to a machine,” I tell him.

He shrugs and grabs my bag tighter.

“Follow me,” he says.

We walk. We walk to the right. To the left. Around in circles. To an isolated machine. He gestures. I go to the machine and insert my card. It spits it back at me.

“It no work,” he says. “We try more.”

We walk. We go downstairs. Across a huge lobby, to a gaggle of machines. He gestures. I walk up to a machine and insert my card. The machine spits it back at me. Another in the same gaggle. Same result. A third. This one works... as all third tries should work.

I withdraw about $100 in Bolivars. Then, I go back to the guy with my bag.

“Ok,” he says. “Now we go to taxi to hotel.”

“I want to take the bus,” I tell him. “I don't want to take a taxi.”

“No buses,” he says. “You go by taxi. 150 Bolivars (about $75).”

“I can't pay 150 Bolivars,” I tell him.

“You change money with me,” he tells me. “I make cheaper. Look,” he pinches his uniform and holds it out from his body. “I am officièl. From the airport. All is okay. Okay?”

Yeah right.

Exhausted, bleary minded, I fish $50 out of my wallet. I give it to him. He counts it and then reaches into his pocket. He gives me 150 Bolivars, counting them carefully into my hand.

“I give you discount taxi,” he says. “For you, 120 Bolivars. I ask my friend.”

For you 120 Bolivars? Where am I? At 47^th Street Photo? Oy vey!

“I don't want to leave yet,” I whine. “I want to buy a dictionary. Un diccionario.”

“No hay bookstore in el airport,” he tells me. “You go Caracas. Hay muchos bookstores en Caracas.”

He grabs my bag and starts walking purposefully toward the exit.

“Wait! Espera por favor!” I yell at his back. “I need to buy a SIMS chip for my telephone.”

I close my eyes for the 0.4 seconds it should take him to tell me I can't buy a SIMS chip in the airport but there are muchos good SIMS chip stores in Caracas. He doesn't tell me that.

“At your service,” he says quickly changing directions, like a soldier in a military parade.

We walk. We go upstairs. Across from the big glass panels, around a huge curving alcove. To a little window marked DIGITAL.

“Aqui,” he says, gesturing toward the window, “se sell SIMS.”

I walk up to the window and ask for a SIMS chip. For the first time, I need to use all the Spanish at my disposal. I'm not well disposed.

[NOTE: from here on, things spoken in Spanish appear in English using italics. That way, the non-Spanish speakers can understand... and my Spanish will appear perfect, rather than the broken- grammar Spanish I actually speak.]

“I'd like to buy a SIMS chip,” I tell the young man behind the counter.

“Show me your phone,” he says.

“It will work,” I assure him. “I've used it all over the world.”

“Show me your phone,” he says again.

I give it to him. He opens it, removes the SIMS chip, puts in a new one and tests it.

“It will work,” he tells me.

“That's what I said, asshole,” I don't tell him.

He fills out the forms and asks for my passport. I hand it to him without bothering to ask why. I just need some sleep. I'll pay for a taxi. Just let me lie down. Close my eyes. Drift off to... to...

“And your address in Venezuela?” says the guy.

I give him the hotel name and address.

“That'll be twenty Bolivars,” he says.

Having bought a SIMS chip in Trinidad, I know the routine. The initial payment is only for the tiny computer chip. If you actually want to USE it, you have to load it up. That costs more.

“How much is one call?” I ask.

“It's different,” he says. “The time you call. The city. The day. Where you call from, Messages. All different. I can't tell you how much.

“Can't you let me sleep?” I don't ask. “Right here. On the floor. Can't you protect me from airport officials? Just for an hour. Let me lie down. A quick nap. I'll be right as a rain forest.”

What I do say is, “Okay. Put 30 Bolivars on the chip.”

He does some things on the computer. I hand him some money. He hands me my phone and a small envelope with the new number written on it.

“Now we go to the taxi,” says the airport guard, pulling my bag along. I run behind him, drifting in and out of a moving sleep.

I vaguely hear his voice through the sleepfog. “120 Bolivars. It's not much. It's far. Caracas is very lejos from the aeropuerto.”

We walk. Around the alcove. Downstairs, through an outside corridor. It's hot. Really hot. Humid. The air as thick as pudding. Briefly, we return inside, then back out to a row of taxis. My captor scouts them.

In a few seconds... minutes?... hours? He finds what he's looking for. A rundown Chevy, circa 1975. Peeling paint. Fenders bent into art.

He waves to the driver. The driver gets out and my jailer talks to him.

I hear Hotel La Floresta, 120 Bolivars. The driver does not smirk. Instead, he opens the back door. The airport official throws in my backpack. I put my computer bag on the floor next to it, and the bottle of duty free rum next to that. Then I climb in next to the driver. He's a very serious-looking blond man, about 40. He wears a crewcut, and dark sunglasses. Looks CIA. We're off.

He drives looking straight ahead. Not a word. Silent like the mafia driver who takes you to the alley where the bullet enters the back of your head. Silent like the general, cigar gripped in his teeth, leads his troops into the valley of death. Silent like the Venezuelan cab driver, dodging traffic like a matador dodges the bull, carries you to your own matador. I fall asleep in the car.

A sudden stop awakens me. Where am I? Have I been kidnapped?

I thought it was in Columbia... or Brazil they kidnap people. This is Venezuela. The new socialism. Oh yeah, I'm at the hotel. Three hours plus 10 minutes of sleep.

I fish out 120 of the 150 Bolivars the airport pirate changed for me. These, I hand to the driver and walk into the hotel. It's a narrow affair, with a small front desk, and a passageway to a larger lobby/open restaurant. I look at the clock on my cellphone. It's 9:30AM.

At the desk sits a man dressed in an old-fashioned bellboy uniform. Green with a bunch of white curlicues. He looks elegant. Like an old-time Latino actor. Square face, thin mustache. A hand-kisser.

I'm too tired to speak English, let alone Spanish.

“Do you English can speak?” I ask the deskclerk.

“Yes,” he says, “how can I help you?”

I give him my name. Tell him I made an internet reservation.

He puts my name in the computer.

“Sorry,” he says, “you don't have a reservation.”

“Of course I do,” I tell him, “I got an email confirmation.”

“Do you have the number?” he asks.

“It's in my computadora.” I tell him.

He suggests I go into the lobby and find it, then he can research the reservation. I go into the lobby, take out my laptop, look for the email message. It's nowhere. Fuck! Maybe I didn't download it. Maybe it's sitting in my Gmail account. Eating up bytes with all the ads for Viagra and imitation Swiss watches.

I try connecting to the internet. I can't. There's WiFi service, but it needs a password. I walk to the front and the elegant clerk gives me the password.

Eventually, I connect. There is no confirmation.

“I can no find it!” I cry to the clerk. “I haven't no sleep. Please, help me.”

He smiles and bows slightly. He types a few things into the computer.

“I can give you a room for only one night,” he says.

“That's great!” I say, remembering that the next night I move to Johnny's. “I only need one night. All I need is a nap. A few hours.”

“The cost is 190 Bolivar a night,” he says.

That's nearly $100!! Plus what I paid to get from the airport. Almost $200 in just a few hours! Fuck it. I need sleep. Every greasy, sweaty polluted pour in my body is calling out for sleep. I hand the guy a credit card.

“Do you need my passport?” I ask him.

“Not yet,” he says. “Later, when you go to your room.”

“I need to go now,” I tell him.

“Your room is not ready yet,” he says. “Come back at one o'clock. It will be ready.”

I think I'm going to die. More than three hours. What am I going to do for more than three hours? Walk in circles? Play Spider solitaire?

Suddenly my phone rings. My cellphone. I've never used it. No one has the number except the guy who sold it to me? Who could be calling?

I answer it.

“Señor Mykel Board?” comes the vaguely familiar voice on the other end.

“Si?” I say.

“Mister Mykel. Where are you?” says the voice.

“I'm in Caracas,” I answer, “at the hotel. Who is this?”

“Don't worry. Your passport is safe,” says the voice. “I have it here at the counter. At the Digital counter, at the airport. When will you come to pick it up?”

Into Venezuela

Click on the picture below to see my VZ pix

Venezuela

THE $220 NAP

1:48 pm Caracas, Today has been one of those travel days that

1. make you wonder about the value of ever going beyond your own city limits and
   

2. provide the raw wheat for the bread of tales to come.

Last night: Rand Ali is the guitar player for ANTI-EVERYTHING

, and one of my Trini heroes. (Read: one of the top ten nicest guys in the world. Right up there with Albert Schweitzer and those guys in Bulgaria who had a pet name for their washing machine).

He picks me up at Steve's mansion in Bumfuck T'dad... right next to Middle-of-Nowhere. It's a hell of a ride from Port of Prince to Bumfuck, but Randy does it. Then, back to pick up some other boys in the band, to their practice space, where they ask me to do some vocals for their next CD. They think my voice will be exotic. I can riff. Oh yeah, I'm not gonna pass that up. I haven't been on a record since Peter Peter use me for a BLEEDER something or other, right at the turn of the millennium,. It'll be great to scream again.

We do the the recording. Besides screaming, I play a news reporter in the midst of an urban riot. I also count off 1-2-3-4 in seven languages.

After the recording, we go for doubles, and then go to Randy's family's house. Here is Randy with his brother in a picture from yesterday's adventure: THE CURRIED DUCK CONTEST, not yet posted.

Randy moves into his brother's room. I have Randy's room, and can sleep... for 3 hours. At 4AM, the three of us get up, go to the airport. We part and I wait on line to check in for the flight to Caracas. Groggy, spaced, in a three-hours-of-sleep funk. I'm not having fun.

The line is not as long as the original NY check-in line, and it moves fast... until I get to the front zig of the roped zig-zag. At that point, the computer system stops working. The line stops. Dead. Nothing moves.

“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” comes the announcement, “we are having problems with our system. It should be up soon. Thanks for your patience.”

I put my hand to my stomach. I'm having problems with my own system. But it'll keep, I think.

With still enough time left to run through security and MAYBE buy a bottle of booze in the duty free shop, I finally get to the front.

I plan to stay with Johnny the Punk in Caracas, with a back-up family of Venancio, a couch surfer, in case Johnny flakes, or my luck continues. My luck does not continue... it gets worse. Much worse.

I do manage to buy a bottle of rum for the back-up family and make it to the gate slightly before the wheels lift off for their trip across a tiny section of water.

Ah Venezuela, the most beautiful girls in the world, they say. Stephen, my host family dad bought me some “Trinidad Viagra,” for the occasion.

“Works like the real thing,” he tells me. “You can hang your hat on it.”

“Oh yeah,” he tells me later. “You need to take only half a pill. Each one's a double dose.”

Good thing he told me, I think.

[ASIDE: My first plan was to take a boat to Venezuela. It's only 7 miles at the closest point. In New York, I did some internet research and found a boat that leaves once a week. A contact number and email address was listed. Some comments said the boat had been discontinued. I tried both contacts. No reply. So I opted for the plane.

In Trinidad, I discover that the boat does, in fact go, but the company never answers email, and rarely answers the phone. The boat costs about $100 round trip. The plane costs $400. I booked a no-refund ticket. I lost $300. It's a pattern you'll see repeated.]

The flight is only 1 ½ hours. I sleep for an hour of it. I've got a hotel reservation for the first night. A hotel looks better than some punk house in the “local address” section of the immigration form. Besides, Johnny said he wouldn't be home until 7PM, and I need a shower and a nap.

My body itches. The combination of peeling sunburn and thousands of mosquito bites makes me want to pull my skin off. Every day, I cover myself with poison. Every day dozens of mosquitoes find the spots I missed.

I don't get it. Nobody in Trinidad has screens. Neither hotels nor private residences. An island of mosquitoes. No screens. Maybe it's a religious thing. A superstition. God shouldn't strain himself entering your house. I donno. Maybe the locals don't get bit. Different diet. Different color skin. Mosquitos go for white meat, or currently red meat... payback for a relaxing day in the sun.

Before I get to the hotel, there are a few things I need to do at the airport. I want to use my ATM card to take out about $100. Then use the little cash I brought with me to change with Johnny's friends in town. The official rate is 2 Bolivars to a dollar. On the black market, it's 3 to one. Johnny said not to change much at the airport.

Besides withdrawing money, I want to eat something, get a Spanish-English dictionary, and buy a SIM card for my telephone. All of those things should be possible in the airport of any city of size. Caracas is some size. 5 million including the near burbs. I shouldn't have any trouble doing those things there. Right? Yeah, right.

EN ESTE OASIS DE PAZ,
PUEDES SENTARTE A
LEER, REFLEXIONAR.
SI ERES POETA ESCRIBE
E INSPIRATE.
EL SILENCIO YA LA
SOLEDAD AYUDAN A
QUE EL HOMBRE SE
ENCUENTRE CONSIGO
MISMO.

That sign is posted next to a little corner table in “The Museum of the Sacred,” a small Catholic museum next to the largest Cathedral in Caracas. I write this while sitting on a concrete bench in the botanical garden. There are three other concrete benches. One is empty. One is occupied by the bags of a woman who sits on a giant leaf on the ground, resting her elbow on the bench. The third is occupied by a Japanese(?) woman and her Venezuelan paramour. The woman struggling in Spanish, but her arm on his shoulder, the way she crosses her legs, says more than her palabras.

Oh yeah, for the non-Spanish speakers amongst you:

In this oasis of peace, you (familiar you, like THOU) can sit to read, reflect. If you're a poet, write and inspire yourself. The silence and solitude will help a man find himself.

[NOTE: Any American in the 2008 who does not speak at least some Spanish ought to be ashamed. Even George W. Bush speaks Spanish, and he's an idiot.]

This little museum and this garden are the silence and solitude amongst a whole lot of... er... I think the technical term is FUCK UPS!

When I get off the plane, I carry my bags to customs. Only carry-ons. I know how to travel. I have one duty-free bottle of rum. I told you about it... It has a bonus.

Though I travel a fuck of a lot, I'm a nervous traveler. I hate airports. I hate customs and immigration more. I must not have an honest face. They stop me. Every time, every country. Strip search, or just pick a bag and open it. It's awful. I'd be the world's worst smuggler. So I declare everything. Red door. Green door. I go through the red door.

“I bought this tube of toothpaste in Canada,” I say. “Do I have to declare it?”

Usually, the inspectors are charmed by my honestly, and just laugh and wave me though.

Once I declared 5 bottles of rum coming back to the US from The Dominican Republic. You're only allowed 2... I wasn't going to try anything funny. The customs guard thought it was funny though. She smiled and waved me through. I always declare something.

I pass through customs. Hand in my form detailing how many cosmetics, how many electronics, how many books, etc. I tell her about the bottle of rum. It works, I think. The guard waves me through. Not very friendly. But no trouble either... I think.

I try to find the door to the main part of the airport. I have things to do. There is no door.

No exit sign. No SALIDA. Only a big blue-tinted glass wall.

“Como puedo salir?” I ask one of the many tan-clad guards.

She points to the glass wall. As I approach it, it opens.

On the other side are two uniformed men. Here it comes. I can feel it. One guy points to me, the other takes my back pack, which I am now rolling.

“You speak English?” he asks.

I nod.

“Where are you going?” he says.

When I was on my hike to the beach in Trinidad. The halfway point was clearly marked with a sign that meant. You've reached the top. It's all downhill from here. There should have been such a sign on the other side of that glass door.

LEAVING NEW YORK

For an increasingly updated look at the PICTURES of my life in Trinidad and Venezuela, click on the picture below:

Trinidad

 According to the little digital clock in the corner of the screen. It is exactly Midnight between August 14 and August 15. I can't sleep. Last night, I slept 4 maybe 4 ½ hours. I never sleep the night before a trip. But this is two days. My brain's on fire. Maybe I have a tumor. Encephelitis. Something.

 Lately I've been... off. Ever since I had the worst hangover ever after spending a day with some Mexican punk rockers... The Sunday after-- they all slept on my floor. Were gone when I got up. Me? I couldn't move for more than 12 hours, except to expel some liquid or semi-solid... 

 Since then, I've been feeling nauseous at least once a day, and not too hot the rest of the time. Nerves I tell myself. I hope I'm right.

 It's strange that I would be a nervous traveler. I do so much of it. It's my passion, my life. But it's not the journey that's the passion, but the adventure. I hate airports: the expensive bad food, the security on security on security. The boredom, the clock watching. I'm usually hours early.

The planes are hours late. The weather forecast is thunder storms. Mmmm yeah!

 My apartment smells of cigar smoke from my nephew Kirk who'll be staying here while I'm gone. The plan was to have him move in on Monday, introduce him to the neighbors, show him the post office, take him to the bank, let him be seen with me. Ease him into it. Hang out a bit. I love the guy and don't get much chance to see him. Such was the plan. 

 I've seen him for 10 minutes... maybe an hour. I did get to introduce him to the post office staff and we went out for a Chinese dinner. No landlord. No neighbors. No hanging out. 

 In the middle of our Chinese dinner there were huge thunderstorms. CRACK! Torrential downpour. Like in the tropics. A welcome to Trinidad? Not New York weather. I bet it'll rain like this tomorrow morning. The flight will be delayed. Canceled. I'll miss the Trinidad connection. Be stuck in Atlanta. Moved in to the airport for a day.

 Where is Kirk he now? 12:07AM. The Shuttlebus is scheduled to pick me up in 4½ hours.Out for a walk? Comforting his girlfriend with a sick mother? Who knows? It's not his fault. There is no fault. It's only the way it works... or doesn't.

 It's been a hell of a summer. My mother died. Kirk's mom lost her apartment in The City and was traveling homeless, until recently. Now their car broke down and they're living out of boxes in New Jersey. A few hours ago, I called my long-time pal Helen on her birthday. The news? Her mother died in June. I hope G-d makes the big change on Rosh Hashona, before would be nice. This has not been a good year. (And there's still an election to go through!) 

  4:07PM (NY-- 5:07PM Trinidad) I'm in the air on the way from NY to Port of Spain (for some reason I keep thinking Port of Soul where does that come from?) Kirk returned at about midnight. We sat together for a quarter hour, waiting for the Airport shuttle that was only 15 minutes late. And the guy called to say he'd be late. It's not raining. The night is bracing. Not cool, but not warm. A perfect temperature. Something will go wrong.

 Kind of ridiculous to schedule a 4:30 pick-up for a 9:00 flight, right? Wrong! There are only 3 passengers on the shuttle. The trip speeds through queens. We arrive at 5:15. The airport looks more crowded than usual. There's a huge line at the ticket counter. I'm lucky. I have an e-ticket and only carry on luggage. I can check in by machine. Just run my credit card in the slot, punch in my flight number and read the information on the screen: 

NO SUCH FLIGHT NUMBER, PLEASE REENTER.

 I try again. Same message. I get on the end of the line huge line-- extending way past the end of the barrier ropes. The thunderstorms of last night have caused dozens of cancellations. The people on line are waiting to talk to an agent to get rebooked as best they can. And then again there are those of us to just want to check in. I put my bags at the end of the line and walk over to the flight screens. I look for my flight number. I see the dozens of cancellations. My flight is not among them. It's not among the scheduled flights either. It's just not there. What can I do except wait on the line and see what's going on. I look at the clock on my cellphone. It's 5:30AM. 

 At 7:22 AM I reach the front of the line. 

 “No problem sir,” says the clerk as she prints out boarding passes for a completely different flight number. “Why didn't you check in automatically?”

 I don't hit her...

 I sleep about half an hour in the plane to Atlanta. I got another hour so far on this plane. That plus the 3 last night gives me a total of 8... combined over the last 2 nights. Aren't vacations to relax? Catch up on sleep? Yeah, right.

Trinidad-- The Hike

For an increasingly updated look at the PICTURES of my life in Trinidad, click on the picture below:

Trinidad

The hike:

I've been here 5 days already and haven't been to the beach yet. This is the Caribbean. It exists for the beach... and the girls. I haven't been to the girls yet either.

I complain about the former condition to Steve, my host.

“We're right near the beach,” he tells me. “ Less than 10 miles away. You can walk it.”

“Really,” I say. “Where is it?”

“Right back there.” He points toward the magnificent view from his back yard, “over that mountain.”

“Yeah right,” I laugh. “Like I'm gonna climb a mountain to go to the beach. Fuhgeddabouddit!”

“Don't worry,” he says. “There's a path. Not steep at all. It's a gentle slope. You can do it in two hours. I'll drive you to the start of the path. You'll have it to yourself this time of year. It's not raining very hard now, and it probably won't get worse.”

Like I'm gonna take him up on his offer to climb a mountain for 2 hours in the rain, through a mini-jungle, by myself.

“Okay,” I tell him. “Do we leave now?”

He nods. I pack my towel, sunscreen, mosquito spray, guidebook. I won't need anything else, will I? We get into his SUV and head to the outskirts of Gasparillo Village (Don't look on a map. You won't find it.) to the start of the journey. Steve is wrong about one thing. I'm not alone. Just starting the trek up the trail is a big local guy with a full salt and pepper beard-- and a machete. If you can think of anyone you'd LESS like to see starting a mountain hike, let me know. Until I hear from you, he's it.

Steve waves good bye and takes off in the SUV. The guy with the machete has already started the journey upward. I hang back a little. Give him time to get ahead and cut his coconuts or whatever else he plans to do. Then, I follow the little dirt path into the darkness of the rainforest.

The covering of the trees blocks most of the rain. Slowly I walk uphill. It's mud. Dirt mud. Clay mud. Rock mud.

Sweating, swallowing, I feel suddenly aware that there's one thing I forgot to pack. WATER. I'm losing it at a pound a minute, sweating it out on an increasingly steep and rocky path. I don't have water. What an idiot! I deserve to die.

Up, up, up I climb. The path twisting out of sight then reappearing ten, twenty, thirty yards away from where it should be. Up. Up. Up. Each turn looking like it should be the last. The downhill should start. NOW.

Suddenly, my head begins to throb. I knew it would happen. Caffeine withdrawal. So close to Columbia. Such strong ties with Jamaica. Yet people here don't drink coffee. You ask for it at a restaurant and you get a cup of hot water and a jar of NesCafe. I drink that, but it doesn't do the trick. I can't go long without coffee. Now I'm paying for it. It's my crown of thorns.

It's not only my head. My leg muscles are screaming. My feet muscles hurt. Nobody's feet muscles hurt. Maybe birds. They're gripping branches all day. But humans? Their FEET hurt, but feet muscles? How can they hurt? Who even knew feet had muscles?.

Plus, my throat is dry, parched in the sweaty mugginess. I can't work up enough saliva to spit. What an idiot! A days journey. Over a mountain. No water.

Then, I run into THE MAN WITH THE MACHETE.

“You got any water?” I ask him.

“Man, I show you wawtah,” he says. “There wawtah here so clean, mahn. It right from de top of de mountain. Spring wawtah, mahn, I show you. You got cup?”

“Sorry,” I don't tell him. “Not only am I so mornic that I don't bring water on a hike over a mountain, but I'm too much of an idiot even to bring a cup.”

I shake my head.

“I show you,” he says, raising his machete.

OK. This is it. Chopped to pieces. The headlines in tomorrow's tabloids. Which part are they gonna send home to Dad? [Ouch! I just got bitten by another mosquito. I thought they weren't supposed to come out in the daytime.]

The man slashes with the machete and cuts a large leaf off a local plant. Then he sets down the knife and folds the leaf into a cup. He shows me how to hold it so it makes a kind of ladle. Then he takes me to a clear stream and motions for me to dip the leaf-cup and enjoy. I do. It's delicious, cold with a taste free of chemicals, or rot of any kind. I feel like drinking up the whole stream. Filling myself. Gorging. Sticking my head in and just sucking it up. But I remember reading someplace about all the bacteria you can't taste. How you should take a mouthful only. Then wait an hour to see if anything happens. Then, you can drink more. When you know it's safe.

I don't have an hour to wait. And I'm real thirsty. I'll drink 2 mouthfuls, no 3... or 4. Then, I'll just worry.

The machete man points up to something invisible off the path.

“I live up there, man,” he says. “I'll be leaving you now.”

“Is it much further to the beach?” I ask him.

He smiles. “Man, you're just at the beginning.”

I don't smile.

The path gets narrower and harder to follow from here. Sometimes, it's just a patch of green flatter than the green around it. Sometimes, it's an orange-red clay, looking more like a river bottom than a path.

Hairpin turn after hairpin turn the “trail” winds up the side of the mountain. Sometimes very up the side of the mountain. Like vertical up.

Gentle slope. That's what Steven said. Yeah right. Gentle for Sir Edmond Hillary maybe.

Except for the sounds of birds, and lots of insects, there's no fauna here. There's strange Ivy. And the weirdest most beautiful flowers

But this is a rain forest. There should be hanging Boa Constrictors. Jackals, I donno. There's... whoa... what's that? It's a crab. Here on way up the peak, where the air is thinner than my hair. A crab! Somebody's escaped lunch?

I imagine a camper or a local, living like the machete man, catching-- or buying a crab by the beach. Suddenly he trips, it falls out of the plastic back. Scampers away. And here it is.

I approach it. It backs up. Snaps it's pincers at me. Clicks its jaws. I take a picture and go on my way.

Upwards, ever upwards. Is this a joke? One of those mystery places where things seem to roll up inclines. An optical illusion. A mountain with no top. Just up up up. One direction... always.

What's that sound. Do they have rattle snakes in Trinidad? No. No. No. They have exotic birds. It must be an exotic bird that SOUNDS like a rattle snake. Sure that's it. There are no rattle snakes in Trinidad, are there? Well, are there?

The path has disappeared. My head is pounding. My legs are begging for relief. My thighs, my calfs (calves?), those muscles in my feet hurt.

My shirt is drenched. Not from the rain. The trees connect overhead. I have not idea if it's raining or not. The weather inside is pure wetness. Some state between rain and not rain. Rain without the drops.

My shirt is drenched from the inside. Dripping. I'm sweated out. Nothing left to sweat. Still the trail goes up. I look up and try to find the top of the mountain. There's green. Lots of green. Here and there is a spot of color. Beautiful color, but not a lot of it. Mostly green. I'm tired. Headached. Thirsty. Drenched in my own sweat. I'll find a log. Just sit down and die. End it all. Do the world a favor... up Ahead, there's a little clearing. A spot of light through the tree cover. A clearing before the continued trudge upward? Should I die here, or die in a spot of light through the green canopy?

I decide that the canopy would be more poetic. My spread-eagled body. Lying in shafts of sunlight, through the palm tree roof. Someone will discover my body. I have no ID. It might get stolen, right?

By the time they find me, Steve will have reported me missing. They'll figure out what happened. The papers will write about the middle-aged American punk rocker who died mysteriously in a shaft of light. He just lost his will to live.

I struggle to the clearing. At the edge, I see two parallel stakes and what looks like a

sign nailed between them. As I approach, I realize it IS a sign. Brown, with multi-colored lettering. There's an official-looking crest on top. After the crest, it says:

WILDLIFE

Look, listen and enjoy

the birds and wildlife you experience

on the trail

Then on the bottom, along with a logo:

Trinidad and Tobago prefers VISA.

Translation? It's all downhill from here!

Ho ho! I made it to the top! It's easy sailing from now on. Just a hop, skip and a jump, and I'm there. Easy as a beer piss. Yeah right.

The way down is treacherous. Slippery mud over slippery rock. Mini waterfalls down the path. Not a path, but ever increasingly a river.

Yep, that's me. Downhill, through the muddy bottom of a river. The only person on this entire mountain. If I break a leg, I'm dead. No one will find me for days. I'll be eaten by insects and escaped crabs. If I break an arm, I can make it. It would be one of those heroic-walks-through-the-jungle-with-a-broken-arm epics. I'll make the local papers. But a leg? Poof. I'm gone. Not poof either, but a long painful death. With no water except what continually drizzles on my slowly rotting corpse. Drizzle. Always drizzling. Leaking slowly off the canopy of trees.

I imagine that wiseguy from Port Of Spain, “Why do you think they call it Rainforest?” he'd say.

One kneehigh waterfall after the other. Me in the middle, trudging throuh the rapids, trying not to lose my balance. The water's getting deeper. There is no way in hell I'm going to live through this. Slipping downhill. In a rapidly rising creek, stream, river.

Out of my eye corner, I see a dog. No, 2 dogs. No, 4? 5? 6? A pack of dogs. Are they going to attack me? Finish me off. They're barking up a storm, running along the river that I'm trudging through. On the side. On the bank. Yeah! That's it! Shown by the dogs. There's space enough to walk up there. Out of the water. Just follow the dogs. Mud, not water. Downhill. Trying to keep the dog butts in view. Following that last tail. Down. Down. Better. Not good, but better. Down I go on a tiny ridge on the side of the river. Down. Down. Down. The ridge along the river BECOMES the river. I'm in it, again. Testing each stone to make sure I won't slip.

I stumble. Catch myself, jarring my spine but NOT BREAKING A LEG. Down. Down. I stumble again, falling forward into the water. I fall on my hands. It's okay. A little scrape, that's all. I DO NOT BREAK A LEG.

Suddenly, a bright light. A view through the trees. Water. The Caribbean. Right there, a glimpse through the branches. Then another. Sure enough. It's water. I'll be there any minute. Yeah right.

It dawns on me that when I look to the side I'm looking at THE TOPS of trees. Very tall trees. And, if I follow their trunks downward, I can see other trees beneath them. I'm going to die.

Down. Down. Down. I go. Pure Zen. Be here now. No thought to anything else except where each foot goes to prepare the way for the next foot. No future except the next step. My mind a zen blank except for the koan: IF I BREAK A LEG, I'M DEAD.

After a millennium of soaking terror, I come to another little clearing, and another little sign:

MINISTRY OF PUBLIC UTILITIES AND THE ENVIRONMENT
National Reforestation and Watershed
Rehabilitation Program
Our Environment. Our Forest. Our Life. Let's Conserve.

Translation: I made it!

The trail becomes a gravel path becomes the beach. I'm in a little town, with one of those beautiful colonial houses right at the corner. A kid plays by himself in the street. He's hitting at something with a stick.

“You going to the beach?” he asks.

“Yep,” I say.

“Just go to the end and turn right,” he says.

I do. On the way, I buy and drink a coke. The caffeine takes care of my headache as I head toward the beach.

Homos: Threat or Market?

I'll share two things I recently received in the mail. One is a mailing from HOME DEPOT. (are you sure that's an E at the end of HOME?)

The next is a clipping from CHURCH AND STATE magazine. An Oklahoma representative says "Gays are a bigger threat than terrorists." If you can't read it, you can

click here for a larger view:

Now it's up to you... which would you prefer: THREAT or MARKET!

What is it?

I just wanted to post this picture I scanned of a candy box some visitor from Japan left in my apartment. YOU can figure out what it's about: