Throughout our travels and forced living quarters, it's much too easy to force a comparison to other cities and other people. For myself, I first recall this going on during a battle of the bands in Key West. The winner received a brick of gold. You can imagine the frivolity in which the competition included. And once it was obvious even to the tone deaf who the winner would be, those not in first had to somehow salvage their pride. So, the old large sows from New York battled those from Nevada or somewhere. That's not the important part. And I wasn't aware of what I was seeing for the first time - people attempting to justify their existence. Something tells me it's a different story at home, where the mostacoli and chicken fried steak sits in a wash basin as Peggy and the kids dive in!
San Juan, Puerto Rico
The vessel was clipping at an unruly pace but there was no going around it - we were late. My friend was in flat denial about this, but the jug of Bacardi that was supposed to last through Wednesday was nearly gone. Normally a man whose senses had been jumbled with the tropical rum would be on my side. However, I was getting the sinking feeling we'd be enemies by nightfall. The early impression of San Juan was chaos. It still hasn't changed. Maybe it was the garbage in the streets. Or it could have been the futile attempts to find a driver to get me out of town. With traffic at a standstill and this trash getting to me, instincts pointed us north. Once the sun went down, however, I immediately regretted the decision. Surveying the surroundings yielded nothing positive at all.
"We've got an option - either we casually walk back to the reef as calmly and quickly as possible." Barry's attempt to clear his throat lead to a coughing fit, so I took this a a signal to give plan "B." "Or, fuck that part, let's go to the other side and charter something."
Like the moron I usually am, I had no idea where we'd go. But he had the cash and as long as he was with me I should be good, right? For the most part, plan B worked...except for a vagabond who threatened to alter everything. There it was: the landing strip within distance when...
"Hey, do you speak English?"
My "what?" was a dead giveaway - Barry shot me a look that was something like "you dumbshit." And then this sod launched into a tale that rivaled yarns I heard in Boston many years ago. Without wanting to relive the horrid experience a second time, rest assured it was all about money. It always is. Before I could even get a word out, Barry belched "Where the fuck do you think you are, Las Vegas?"
He grabbed me by my shirt and off we ran. This dolt kept trying to solicit us - he even added "I'm calling the police!" That might work elsewhere but in a U.S. territory I could give a fuck. The bills were flashed in a hurry but long enough for the pilot to know we meant business. 15 minutes later, after some creative hiding, we were leaving the island where the pilot took the bite of a pastry and turned to me. "Wait - where are we going?"
Saint-Martin, French West Indies
This night flight didn't calm our nerves as it should have. Plus figuring out which side was Dutch and the other French was just as difficult. It came down to what we could do more with our weak fucking dollar. I should have brought the Euros but they served me to happiness at home right now. This wasn't the worst thing, though, as it kept the riff-raff from the island out of our way. But I won't lie - the conversion seemed shady.
Eating our breakfast facing the sea, we realized our waitress had the amazing ability to convert everything to U.S. dollars. "Barry, I'm no fucking math wizard, but I can at least calculate missing checks and money that slut back in the U.S. owes me. So with some authority I-"
His fists slammed on the table.
"Can your ethics. Screw the superlatives. We're getting ripped off. So we're going to keep ordering fucking food and drink and show this girl American Balls." I'd like to take a moment and establish that I only trust my friend in court. Anywhere else is a different story. Hell, ask him to talk about the TV antenna on my roof and why it picked up no Cuban baseball but acted as a high power police signal. Yeah.
Casually, I left the table with everything else I could carry - a pineapple, a flash of rum, 3 hats, and a crudely made harmonica. The rest of the day was spent on a covert attempt to get to the other side and safety. Looking back at this, it was clearly a sign that we should not try to go to Haiti. It's not going to be worth it, I keep telling myself. Why do you have to keep going to those places that are either in the middle of a war or about to have one?
Shit, I'd rather spend my time breaking down this weekend's NFL play-off match-up. But we're not going to be in Tampa until the weekend at the earliest. Lordy me - flashbacks. El Salvador in 1985. That was your Hotel California, Don. They wanted an eye on everyone, and the Embassy was akin to "out of bounds" but my story which was written in near total hiding there lead to my firing. "Get the fuck out of Dodge" was a refrain then, and 20 years later we're saying the same thing. But despite being somewhere else we're still in the "oh shit" belt of the Western Hemisphere. I don't see a crossing of the Continental Divide in my future.
Editor's Note: Trip's writing book was seized by customs. This incomplete writing was all that was saved. Mr. Darvez is fine, currently not accepting collect calls from Flagstaff, Arizona.
