A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 5 of 3

Given the precedent set by the previous events on this tour, my rest was better than I could have expected. I was only awoken a few times through the course of the night, and the person behind me was gracious enough to let the little hand hit the six before he started to shout.

"I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm dying," he pierced the general hum of the moving road with his shrieks, "I'm dying!"

My heart jumped up and so did I to turn behind my headrest. There sat a five-year-old boy banging two plastic men together.

"I'm dying. I'm dying," it was kind of cute, I thought. There were other verbs he could be using while banging the men together.

"I'm dying," he gave me a huge toothless grin while his mother, after years of practice, remained quietly asleep aside him.

"I'm dying. I'm dying, " he continued, dissipating all lingering forms of cuteness in his play.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." What a wonderful narrative surmise of my trip, I thought, and it's getting really annoying.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." How long does it take your plastic man to die? I turned around again and chided him.

"Shut up," I said. But this time his mother was awake and she gave me a look that could be read word for word as follows:

"My kid? Shut up? Listen, punk, you shut up! Ha! The guy who made the whole bus stop last night because he couldn't hold it in is telling my kid to shut up? Turn your honky-ass around!"

Well, maybe her look didn't scream that last part, but it was effective enough to make me turn and bear disgrace.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." We spoke in unison, "I'm dying."

Unable to return back to a semi-peaceful state, I stared out the window to watch the sunrise. Ah, yes! When one wakes before the sun rises, he can make the most of his day. He is blessed with opportunity. A sunrise provides both literal and figurative enlightenment. The entrance of the sun allows me to push yesterday's woes behind me and to bask in today's chance to make anew. Yes, the sunrise brightens spirits and fills each day with a spectrum of....wait! Why was the sun rising out of my window on the right of the bus? Even being in the southern hemisphere couldn't explain this anomaly.

"Take 'er really easy, Chris. You don't know what's going on." I thought. But that was the problem, I didn't know what was going on anymore. The best solution at this moment was to sigh and accept. This was a cursed trip from the outset. The realization should have made it more manageable, but it didn't. I stared out the window, I had nothing with which I could pass the time we were heading backwards except for my journal. (At this instant, I'd like to point out that my notebook was more of a Magellanesque tale of adventure than a pre-teenage girl's diary. Well, who am I kidding?)

"Dear Diary," I wrote. "I can't wait to finally get back to my room where I can rest peacefully and dream of all my crushes, omg!" I continued with seemingly endless similes for what my heart felt like. I think I was writing about the way Danny looked at me during third period when a sudden interruption shook my pen. The bus had slowed as a result of the sudden friction applied to it's wheels by the break pads, in other words: the driver slammed on the brakes when we came to an unexpected (yet unsurprising) obstacle in the road. What was surprising, however, was what happened next.

[[You'll unfortunately have to wait a short time for the shock and awe that follows this lingering suspense/angst. Part six of this three-part odyssey will be presented soonafter we complete contract negotiations with a certain Hollywood A-List celebrity who may be playing the role of the Bus Driver. We've already signed Danny DeVito on as the five-year-old boy in the forthcoming crag-laden movie.]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 4 of 3

Alone we sat in the darkest of the Altiplano steppes. My need for use of a bathroom had caused my entire bus to stop where there was nothing but an expansive lack of restrooms. The driver's frustration-fueled forceful stop was sure to have awoken those easily awoken by frustration-fueled forceful stops. The parallel structure of this moment was that while my entire bus was isolated from civilization, I was the lone maverick who was isolated from them. There I stood on the steps of the bus, a solitary bohemian*, segregated by my fellow Passenger, ready to take charge, unaccompanied, peering into the think black yonder. **

I slowly stepped from the bus, which as dark as it was outside, remained even darker on the inside. I was wise enough to know that this caused a problem of physics. I wouldn't be able to see in, but all who were on the window could easily see definition of figures out. I didn't care. Because even though there wasn't a shrub large enough for the Knights who say Ni!, I really, really had to go to the bathroom. So I took in a large breath, gathered myself and ran alongside of the bus. It was hopeless to try to run out of sight, so I analyzed that my best option was to hover as closely to the side of the bus as possible.

Well, I didn't have much time to think so I simply acted. And, picture it if you must, there I sat exposed to my greatest fears. I sure put the "Bare Ass" into embarrassing. But I was relieved! (Pun intended).

Then, like a brick face to the wall, the realization hit that, in my haste, I hadn't prepared myself with paper. I started to grow concerned and began to frantically search around me. Nothing. I patted myself down to find to my elation and/or discomfort that, in my pants' pockets remained the letters from my friend back home.

"Well," I settled the idea in my mind, "If there's ever been justification for this... now is the time." With a great sense of guilt amalgamated with my excessive embarrassment and half-nudity, a large and grotesque allegorical monster crawled inside my chest. My stomach felt better, but my heart rate was askew. Externalizing my palpitation, I jumped up, left my letters for the Alpaca, covered up the hole I dug and boarded the bus.***

Refreshed, yet head hung, I skulked back to my seat. If I had a tail, it would have been hiding between my legs. Enrique showed my a picture he took of me outside and then the bus stopped five miles later at a rest stop for gas and snacks. From what I heard, the toilets were nice...

[[Please stay tuned for part 5 of this knuckle-whitening, teeth-clenching, throat-gagging 3-part series of my adventures through the Argentine desert. Don't touch that dial, I'll be right back.]]

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*Note: I'm not Bohemian with a capital B, but rather a bohemian, with a lower case b. I'm American, duh.
**Wow, there are a lot of commas in that sentence.
***I wanted to ensure concerned readers that I did, indeed, dig a hole despite my stress. Also, in my first draft, I had written, "covered my hole", which really didn't sound how I intended it to.

Stupid Bamboo Hugger

The following is a Craigslist Apartment Ad that I found in my search for available rooms in Chicago. My response to the ad is below in purple.
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$700 **** Apt. to Share for Female Prof. or Grad. w/Foreign Policy Exp ****

Political junkie seeks female professional or grad student with more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin to share condo (summer internship in Spain, safari in Africa, scuba diving in France, or vacation in Italy will suffice). No wildlife killers or environmental novices will be considered. Respondents with lip-sticked pit bulls will not be considered. Ideal condo-mate will have registered to vote and be progressive in pursuing change we can believe in. War heroines will be considered, but Bush apologists and rationalizers will not.
New Furnished 3 BR, 2 BA Condo. A/C; DW; Washer & Dryer in Unit; Disposal. Queen Bed, 4 drawer chest, and small TV in BR. Exterior and interior quality finishes. Three bedrooms two baths. Cherry cabinets and cherry and bamboo hardwood floors thru-out! Private balconies. Gas Fireplace. Plenty of street parking. Nice, safe neighborhood. Public transportation and grocery shopping within 1 block; 5 minutes to Blue Line. 20 minutes by car to O'Hare. Near Kennedy Expressway. 3 Blocks from Northeastern Illinois University.
Rent includes utilities. Must like small, energetic dog and be available to care for him infrequently. Responsible, fun, upbeat, reliable, mature, and adaptable to a wry sense of humor would be ideal to share unit with professional, responsible male exec. Please respond with your lifestyle description, profession, contact information, and foreign policy resume. Immediate availability. Small non-barking dogs (under 20 lbs.) o.k.
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My Reponse:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to inquire about the availability of your politically adorned room. However, I write with hesitations. Because of my traumatic experiences in Argentina I am rather fragile and refuse to spend another night with any more junkies. If you can assure me that your political habits can be suppressed when I am at my weakest, (i.e. when I see a photo or drawing of, or real-life Tapir) I will be a little more assuaged.

Having spent an entire year in South America and having taken the opportunity to travel extensively throughout Europe, Asia and Eurasia, I feel that I have more foreign policy than Sarah Palin. In fact, when I traveled to Alaska, I found that most Inuits are confused with Eskimos and that most Eskimos are confused with beavers. This allowed me to realize the xenophobia and stereotyping behaviour of most Alaskans. I feel that Alaskans, overwhelmingly, are alcoholic. So I try my best to stay away from them.

Moreover, I can assure you that I am neither wildlife killer nor environmental novice. I am a friend to all animals (with the lone exception: that damned Tapir). My environmental experience includes but is not limited to: three years as a lawn service employee for H&R Lawn Care. References furnished upon request.

I hope that it is okay that my cousin's neighbor's step-father has a poodle with eye-liner. I do not condone the application of makeup to dogs. Cats though, well, I'd have to gauge the situation and/or brand of makeup. Of course I would never apply makeup to, toss about, or eat your small, energetic dog. If I haven't already mentioned it, I LOVE DOGS! Gee, though, I hope your dog's name is Samuel or Hubert. In my opinion, these are two of the best possible names for canines. I will be able to work with most other names, regardless of the amount of syllables. Just warn me ahead of time if the name rhymes with 'Taupe'. It's better I prepare for that.

You should be excited to hear that I have registered to vote! In fact, I would have made it out to cast my ballot in the last election had it not been for that lousy weather, those lengthy lines or my incredible apathy! I suppose that if I did vote I would have voted against George Bush by striking through that circle next to his name with an emphatic check mark. While I am a friend to animals, I am an enema to George Bush! What a doofus! Are we sure that he's not from Alaska? Or East Timor for that matter?

Honestly, I could care less what the apartment looks like, although, I am pumped to see that you have bamboo hardwood floors throughout. Did you know that Bamboo can grow 30-40 feet per day? Of course you do! It's incredible growth rate makes it a perfectly environmentally friendly choice for all flooring! This is why I chose to line the inside of my Ford F-250 with seaweed because it grows at even quicker rates.

I see that you have two bathrooms, but I have this thing, you know, after my year in South America, where I can't go to the bathroom without someone else in there. Would it be cool to ask to share a bathroom?

Thanks for taking the time to read through my email, you sound like a professional, responsible male exec.

I hope this can work out! Uh, also, being male, I bring along something that no female can bring. That is, a penis. I don't want to go into great length about it, I'll save all those stories for when we share the bathroom together, but after my tapir experience...well, it'll make sense when I show you.

Man, if you can drop that price down from $700 to around $400/month, then we'd really be talking.

Really looking forward to chillaxing, eating sushi and talking about the AIDS pandemic ravaging Sub-Saharan Africa,

Chris

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Note: I am still awaiting reply and will post his reply as soon as it is received.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 3 of 3

Because even highbrow humour needs a poop joke every once in a while:

As the night grew increasingly longer I became more entrenched in my hopelessness. I was stuck on an overnight bus journey from Jujuy, Argentina back to Buenos Aires. All would have been grand had it not been for the fact that nothing was grand. The first three hours of the trip had become excruciating. If my bowels could speak, they'd echo in angst; "SHIT!"

Enrique, my seatmate, wouldn't shut up, couldn't shut up. He was so jacked on maté that he couldn't sit still. Meanwhile, hands clenched to the armrests, I sat near vertically, at an angle of even less than 90 degrees with my insides writhing. The light above flickered at a rate mere fractions of seconds off consistent. This was just enough to further drive me berserk. The cosmos were surely playing an evil trick on me.

The chances that I would last like this much longer weren't slim to none. No, they were none. I thought it best to count, to take my mind off of every single little thing around me. It had gotten to the point where I felt that even the fabric on my seat was too rough on my skin and that I thought I could smell my feet; or someone's feet. Every sensation I experienced turned painful, and the counting did no good. It became a systematic countdown towards my breaking point.

Sixty-six, sixty-seven...Enrique was yapping.
One-oh-eight, one-oh-nine...I was sweating.
One-forty-two, one-forty-three...the lights were flickering.
Crap! What number was I on?...The bus was rocking.
One-twenty-two, one-twenty-three...I was sure that the driver has gone tangent on a goat-path.
One-ninety-nine, two-hundred....

I jumped up amid Enrique's rant about Whatever, I said no words and I RAN down to the driver below.

Now, it's rare that I'll ever ask someone to bend to my wishes. I am a firm believer in the utilitarian approach to moving commerce. A long line of cars should not wait for one person disobeying a crossing-signal to stroll lazily across the intersection, and certainly a bus-full of content passengers shouldn't be forced to pull off into a small town so that one guilty American can use the bathroom. (Although functions of utilitarianism would have ensured that the bus's toilet worked). It is, however, also true that I am of the firmest belief in some sort of consequentialism. This choice, to stop, would be much better for all on the bus than if I hadn't the opportunity. I promise.

"Excuse me, sir," I hesitantly gained the driver's attention, "I need to use the bathroom."

"We'll be stopping shortly," he retorted.

"Uh... we need to stop very soon, shortly won't suffice." ( I don't know how I managed to get this all across in Spanish). We then began to stare each other down. I really wished he would watch the road, but I also needed him to understand the gravity of my situation. One would assume that my gravity was the standard 9.8 m/s², however, the weight of all the burdens on my back pushed me towards the floor*. Hunched over, I engaged the driver in a very monumental staring contest, and I was so intent on winning that I didn't move to wipe the sweat dripping from my brow. We both stared as if it would never end. Then, from either my determination or the driver's necessity to return his attention back to the road, I emerged victor! I contently turned around after his nod and headed back to my seat when I suddenly flew backward. The bus came to a screeching halt.

"Here." the driver said concisely.

"Here?" I asked. I looked outside. The moonlit night shone only upon an empty field for as far as I could see. There were no lights, no signs of civilization and, sure as death, no toilets.

"Here?" I asked again. Maybe I wasn't victorious, after all.

[[Please hang tight for part four of this engaging three part series! This is certainly not the end.]]
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*Note: Yes, I am fully aware of the differences between force and gravitational pull. This device used purely literarily.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 2 of 3

"Hey, Dude," my seatmate spoke to me in Spanish, "you want some yerba maté?" I was told that it was not just impolite, but that, in fact, it was rather rude to refuse an offered share of Argentina's most potently caffeinated tea. Yerba maté has a similar caffeine content to the coffee bean, and its drank directly though the leaves, filtered through a straw in a hollowed out gourd. Resultingly, I was faced with a handful of problems:

1. I has just been abruptly awoken and I was NOT happy
2. The second to last thing I needed was caffeine through potent tea on the first hour of my overnight, uncomfortable-bus-seat-burdened voyage, and
3. The very last thing I needed was to burn the unspoken rapport between me and my bus-buddy that had already allowed me to claim over 2/3 of the shared arm rest
   

Also, I suppose that the ultimate-last thing I needed at this point was to have the bus stormed by pirates, but that was the least of my worries considering all my other woes. I didn't need the next 17 hours and 25 minutes to be spent in a constant battle for claim over the bordering land. It was at this point that I came up with a final decision, a decision which I had never used theretofore. I chose to pretend that I didn't speak Spanish.

"What?" I said in English. He motioned toward his tea. "Very nice." I said and turned to look out the window. He tapped my shoulder. Dammit, he was persistent.

"Querés?" He asked.

I needed to be persistent, too; "No sir, I would not like to caress your gourd," I mumbled in case anyone around us did speak English. He shoved the straw in my face. I surrender! This was to be a painfully long journey if I continued to surrender that easily, but I was clearly fighting a strategic war-master. I took gourd and a sip. My stomach grumbled. The dulce de leche desert from earlier had already not been sitting perfectly. I sighed.

"Great, thanks." I said to Eisenhower and handed it back. I found out that his name was less-fittingly Enrique, and we continued to engage in general discourse. I slowly began to turn my one word, curt, Spanish responses into lengthy Spanish monologues as the caffeine kicked in. My cover was blown. Enrique refilled his gourd with thermos and I refilled my vigor. We drank, talked and shared. Funny was when Enrique asked me some rather uncomfortable questions about American girls. Not funny was how much more uncomfortable my stomach felt than trying to answer his questions.

I had to excuse myself, "Pardon me, I'm going to go find the bathroom."

"It's not working."

Hoping he was talking about our newfound friendship I asked, "What's not working?"

Enrique neither assuaged my fears when he replied, "The bathroom," nor when he informed me that "we'll be stopping in only a couple hours for gas." I buried my head in hands and sighed again. Okay, I thought, I'll take a break, lean back and hopefully dream about a porcelain land with hills of toilet paper and rivers of hand soap. I pushed against my chair. It didn't move. I pushed harder. It didn't move harder.

"I'm glad you're here, friend, welcome to South America," Enrique said as he handed me some more maté.

[[Part three to follow. The horses, all the beautiful horses... hold on to them]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 1 of 3

Traveling through Northwest Argentina had hitherto been enjoyable and relaxing. The clean and welcoming cities of the Salta and Jujuy provinces brought few feelings of insecurity. Yes, shockingly, the cities on the Argentine Altiplano were kempt. Overcome by a waitress’s congeniality I spent my last pesos on a recommended dulce de leche dessert and on a gracious tip. With empty pockets and a full stomach I quickly searched through town to find an accessible ATM before I boarded my bus back to Buenos Aires, but my labors ended fruitlessly and I raced back to the terminal to load my bag and squeeze into my seat just in time to begin the 26 hour haul back to the capital. Of course, at that particular moment, I was only expecting an 18 hour trip.

I sifted through my bag. My camera’s battery had died the night before but I pulled out my notebook to jot down memories from the past day. I was sure as lief to forget had I not taken the time to write down my experiences. It was customary and very easy for me to supplement writing with photography as each picture was worth, as the saying goes, at least sixty-five words.

My hand got tired as it often would. I had written about just the breakfast I ate the day before and I gave up. To pass the time before light ran out, I pulled out a few letters from my friend back home in Chicago. They served to remind me both of the luxuries I had left in the United States and of the reasons I wanted so badly to escape the country for a year. Overall, the letters, as I best recall, were humorous and helpful to pass the time on an uncomfortable South American bus commencing its overnight journey. I’d take this discomfort, though, anytime over the monotony of the Chicago Suburbs. This was new and exciting. In my haste boarding the bus I had forgotten to grab any CDs from my suitcase which was now secured under the cabin. We wouldn’t be stopping until morning, so I was without entertainment for the night. Thankfully, I am completely diurnal during long travel. As soon as the sun set, I expected to fall asleep. I rested my head on the window where I watched the diver-sun, slow-dived from noon, meld into the horizon creating a splash of golden light.*

My consciousness swept away with the daylight. There was to be no need for CDs or camera batteries where I was going, and darkness paved way to slumber. Ah, yes, sleep! I can write about its beauty incessantly. Sleep is the brilliant state where all possibilities became probabilities. Only, unfortunately for me, the probability of being awoken was near certainty. My lucid dreams were startled back into lurid visions of the man sitting next to me.

[[Parts 2 and 3 to follow.]]
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*Note: Thank you Herman Melville.

I'm In Love with a Pig (Video)

Let's try to get this video up on the video viral charts... Handed to my roommates at a house party by our next-door neighbor. He says he's getting into the comedy scene. This is too good for anyone to miss:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abtSrFavwCA