A one piece swimsuit is not necessary, but board shorts are a must

October 29, 2011:  Today was a full day of giving money to the caged trolls in the ticket booths so that I could visit some heavily marketed tourist sites.  I must say, the ministry of tourism did an amazing job, making me feel that I “HAD” to visit whole slew of places when here.  Jesus Christ and Sugar Loaf is just a few of the long list of places.  The rest of the international tourist must have felt the same due to the large numbers that flocked at each site.  Here I seemed to inadvertently have shooting competitions with the Japanese, on who could take more photos – I clearly kicked there pale arses.

I have always seemed to prefer mountains over beaches.  But after visiting the ever so popular Copacabana and Impanema beaches…I must say that lounging around on at a beach is not all that bad.  There was an uncountable amount of bodies here; baking their skin to various shades of brown and in some cases, red as they lay sprawled out on the beach.

Sitting here on my temporary piece of real estate, I was quick to notice something extraordinarily beautiful in Copacabana that I have never remembered seeing or perhaps never noticed before on any other beach.  It was that every female seemed to be wearing a bikini no matter the age, waist or cup size.  From beached whales to grandmas in g-strings who were almost ready to tag and bag…they were all enjoying the beach to the fullest. 

I will not go into detail about the plethora of male Speedos being worn by men of all shapes and sizes - which continues to be truly hard for me to digest.  It looks as if they are just walking around in a skimpy pair of underwear.  It is even more amusing when they are wearing the Speedo in combination with a t-shirt and tennis shoes.  Too bad I cannot temporarily loan them my eyes so that they can see what the mirror doesn’t show them.

On the beach I hesitantly but clearly needed to take off my shirt - not just because I was the only one wearing one – which is usually the case, but because it was a first step toward a feeble attempt to one day put an end to the unsaid “Powder” thoughts by others (A film from 1995).

With a list of place to see and things to do while here in Rio for the next 12+ days…I am going to be busy.

Give me your money!

October 29, 2011:  I was told the Lapa area in Rio was an amazing place to be on a Thursday night.  It is not the norm for me to go out drinking, but last night I bent the rules by an exuberant amount making it till about 4am.  I started off with consuming a few oversized cans of beer and after that, I will only say that it grew to great unimaginable proportions.  For someone who lacks poundage and typically has a two drink self imposed limit for certain but good reasons, I was dangerously drunk. 

At around 2am, I was seeing double and at times triple as I attempted to walk down the street with an Israeli man trying to find a local samba bar we visited earlier in the evening. I was completely oblivious to what was going on when we were approached by a 20 year old man who I originally thought was trying to start a fight.  He first pointed a thick wooden skewer in my face ranting about something in Portuguese that I could not understand.  He then turned away from me and toward the Israeli, after he saw that I didn’t understand anything and was having a difficult time trying to focus on what he was pointing at me.  

I can only guess that the guy was expecting to make some easy money – as he buried his chest into the Israeli, sounding like a broken Portuguese record.  It was quickly turning into a possible fight, knowing that I needed to get focused…which my body seemed ready, but my brain had an difficult time coming out of a drunken spin, as I began to calculate my impaired blows if the man crossed an unquestionable line.

With us both continuing to walk forward throughout the whole charade, the man eventually stopped repeating himself and spun away.  Asking my friend on what he was saying, he told me it was something in the effect of, “give me your money.” Oh…maybe I need to make sure this two drink rule doesn’t get broken again. 

The evening continued to get more and more memorable as the minutes ticked away.  I read in my travel guide that prostitutes tend to visit normal establishments and blend in with the normal clientele.  With this said, when any girl would speak to us, I would lean over to my friend and whisper, prostitute.  A few were more obvious than others…and others just got the label because I was well past my two drink limit. 

When two model quality girls that asked if they could sit next to us and then asked for us to buy them some drinks, I feel this was one of the times I correctly identified their profession as I leaned over and this time I accurately said prostitute.  My friend then gets up to go to the restroom - nice move I thought...leaving it up to me to deny them a free drink.  Once he was gone, I apologized and told them that he has my money. Feeling really awkward since they didn’t speak English, nor do I speak Portuguese - but more importantly I was not interested in being a future recipient for some new herpes cream.   I excused myself as I got up and stood a little bit away hoping my friend was going to quickly come back so we could leave.

Today I woke up quite earlier given that I went to bed so late – or early…it depends on what time zone you live in.  I wanted to wake up earlier but the guy in the bunk bed across from me who told me he was going to set his alarm on his iPad to wake me, was just laying there with his eyes wide open - not at all in a rush to wake me up.  Once getting off my bed I saw the reasoning why…it was the tall slim blonde woman from Belgium who was on the bed below me, with her legs gaping open as she slept in her underwear.  I am going to have to label her as a good girl…she was not sleeping bottomless.  For those that have been following my blog…I wrote a post on June 16, 2010 labeled, “Do good girls sleep bottomless…in a hostel?”  According to Google, this is still the most visited post on my blog…sad, but numerically true.

In true man form

October 27, 2011:  While tramping around the UNESCO World Heritage site of Ouro Preto, I found myself climbing on a lot of steep stoned streets clinging to the hills sides.  With a miniature map that didn’t make sense and was probably created by a 3^rd grader for a school project, I would visit some of these hills more often than I cared to.

My strategy when approaching these hills was different than the locals.  I would put my head down and go straight up without stopping, passing people along the way of all fitness levels who also had the same objective.  When reaching the top, I would feel as if I was about to die from exhaustion – pretending I was not out of breath, as I would wobble a bit from side to side, hoping I would not pass out as I attempted regained full consciousness.  This all played out in true man form.

A required shower before entry

October 25, 2011:  While queuing up on the side of the bus heading to the former colonial mining town of Ouro Preto, I noticed something that was quite concerning.  There was a man that had such a wretched odor that was not seeping from his pores, but more like stuck in his pores waiting to get onto the bus.  He smelled as if he might have been on a shower strike that past month – maybe two.  There are showers in most of the bus stations here in Brazil so it would have been nice if he bathed before putting on his fresh clean clothes – as I might be sitting next to him for the next 11.5 hours.

Occupying my seat there was nobody next to me…yet.  Calculating the number of seats and the number of obvious couples and families…I had a strong possibility that he was going to be my neighbor.  “Oh…nooooooooooo,” I thought.  I can just see his ripeness clinging to me for the next few days and here I too just put on fresh clean clothes.
 
As he entered the bus, he began his way down the aisle passing empty seat after empty seat looking at his ticket.  Closer and closer he came…each step taken was that of a snail being filmed in slow motion sliding slowly across aisle.  Approaching my seat he pauses, looking up at the seat numbers.  He was educated enough to thankfully match numbers as his ticket and the open seat next to me was not a match!

That was so close…so - so close as he sat two rows behind me next to a different sorry son-of-a-snitch.  I could still smell his ripeness…but at this distance, the odor will be somewhat bearable after my noises desensitizes.  It would be a wonderful policy at the bus terminal that would require you to shower before entering a bus, similar to how you are required to shower before entering a public pool.

Si, mother phucker

October 24, 2011: “Cappichino traditional por favor” (opps – Spanish), I said to the server. “Cappichano” he says back to me as if he was impersonating Frankenstein. “Si” (opps…Spanish again), I replied, giving him a huge smile because he seemed to need it. Not one muscle moved in his face. It was like he carelessly self injected 5 times the recommended dosage of Botox.

As he was walking away,“Si, mother phucker” seeped out between my lips in a low tone, thinking that if I said it too loud and he understood me, I would get more than just a cappachino – so so so sorry…I mean,“Cappichano.”

Photographs and Prostitutes

October 21, 2011: Today’s I was at the Luz metro station experimenting with shutter speed on my camera as the trains would come and go.  As this was taking place, I noticed a large number of sketchy looking guys around me – causing me to wrap the strap of my camera a few more times around my hand just in case they might be out shopping for a new camera.  

Not long after, I realized why there was such a large group of men…people watching.  They were not interested in my camera or photography or people watching, they were more into interested into dancing horizontally with the freelance entrepreneurs who were working the area - not that the vertical dance won’t be performed by the more creative and stronger men and flexible women.

These entrepreneurs were not your normal scantily dressed prostitutes who wore tattered clothes as they lurked around the station.  If the station was a junkyard these women could be classified as junkyard prostitutes - ones with much too much junk in the trunk and under the hood…with more than likely some mold in the interior.

Now, as I was looking around the metro station with a new set of eyes, I noticed that there were immediately available women everywhere.  They stood in doorways, on the stairs, walking around cat calling the men and making obnoxious noises to get the attention of potential plumbers.  Being approached by an old Grandmother I didn’t quite understand what she was saying, but I didn’t need to know nor need to translate what she was saying…it was obvious.  Serving more men than some small town McDonalds, she wanted McLovin at the value menu price. 

Sao Paulo…home of George Jetson

October 19, 2011:  Making it to the top of the Edificio Itialia on the 44^th floor – it was one of the most amazing surreal sights – reminding me of the cartoon The Jetsons when I was a child.  The buildings would continue as if was a sea of cement going beyond the horizon.  I can see why Sao Paulo falls into the top 10 biggest cities in the world, depending on what website you look at.  With about 20,900,000 people you need a lot of concrete to accommodate its people.

While waiting for the concert at a theater, I noticed some street cleaners with the brooms and buckets starring at something.  It made me curious so I to needed to walk over to see what was behind the umbrella.  I should have known.  It was a girl crouched on the ground exposing the tiny triangle from her thong.  Those street sweepers cleaned the same spot for quite some time.  By the time she left that spot was probably the cleanest spot in the city after all three of them walk by her while performing, the “sweeping” trick.

1st Annual Noisy Roommate Competition.

October 17^th, 2011:  I decided to participate in 1^st Annual Noisy Roommate Competition last night at about…3:30am.  Yes, I may not have had as much experience as my three Brazilian roommates since it was there 3^rd night in the row of practice as they again came in the room turning on lights and talking as if I was not even there.

Once they were finished, it was my turn.  Not long after the lights went off I had a chance to display my skills.  Getting out of bed at around 4:00am, I turned back on the lights as they tried to sleep and packed my backpack, banging around, dropping my locker door and repetitively pulled my backpack in and out.

It was laughing so hard inside but also aware that they might retaliate.  Three verses one is never good.  Yes, I am counting the woman too because she seems as tough as the other two guys.  In the morning, nothing was said about our competition last night as we did our usual pleasant greetings as if nothing happened.

A 300 pounder in his tighty whities doing a spread eagle

October 16, 2011:  Passing by a room in my hostel that seemed to have a lot of activity, my curiosity pulled my eyes inside.  I happened to see a 300 pound fat man on his back in his tighty whities doing a spread eagle with a tattooed man from Holland hovering over him.  The vision still makes me snack on whatever I might have previously eaten.

The backpacker from Holland was giving him a giant body tattoo.  People travel with strange things, but a tattoo gun?  I wanted to warn the man getting the tattoo not to fall asleep or he might get 56 stars on his face like the girl from Holland did a few years back.  But, I was told that someone already said it - and here I thought it was an original thought for a brief second or two.

The Brazilian Wax…does everybody have one?

October 15, 2011:  I am here on Santa Catarina Island which is somewhat of human magnet for those who are looking for a tan or a nice burn.  With all of these people in bikinis, it makes me wonder if the majority of people in Brazil proudly support a Brazilian wax.  Maybe the Brazilians enjoy getting the boring American wax or is it the ever so painful yet exotic Chinese wax – whatever that might look like…if there is even one.  I never did an internet search on this subject and truthfully, I am scared to see what the search will pull up.

Okay, I had to do it.  I just did a search on Google for “Is there a Chinese bikini wax.”  There is no such thing as a Chinese bikini wax, but I did learn that there is a French bikini wax…interesting.

If I put my head down, nobody will talk to me…I hope

October 13, 2011:  I took for granted the past few years on how easy things were traveling when you have a general idea on what people are trying to tell you.  It is also nice to be able to speak to people if you wanted to even if it was only basic conversation.  Now since I am in Brazil, I am stuck speaking Spanish to people who speak Portuguese. 

These past few days reminded me of my first day in Bogota, Colombia…looking down as I walk, afraid that someone was going to talk to me.  Give it some time and I will have the basics in Portuguese though I won’t be an overachiever and go beyond the basics in Portuguese - being from the United States and knowing more than two languages might scare someone.

What is the purpose of a mirrored ceiling?

October 13, 2011:  Arriving in the big port town named Porto Alegre in the wee hours of the morning, I did one of my, to date…most impressive museum marathons, visiting 8 museums and saw a few other cultural points of interest in only one day.  I was focused on getting out of this town, due to not making a reservation before arriving; I was forced to stay in a room outside my budget.
 
There were other options on where I could stay…such as the hotel that has an hourly rates and daily rates.  But the weekend was approaching and I thought it would be wise to pay a few extra dollars to help minimize the late night musical choir of moaning and groaning coming not from my room, but from the rooms above, below and the right and left of me.  Also, what is the purpose of a mirrored ceiling when all you can do is look at yourself?

Feeling the price shock of Brazil…I am currently trying to do what I do best…adapt.  The food and accommodations are so expensive, no wonder why certain tribal people in the Amazon region live in huts and eat McHumans!

I am in Chuy or Chui

October 11^th, 2011:  I continue to extend my track record on fumbling another border crossing.  As in Paraguay months ago…the bus once again passed immigration without stopping.   The countries are separated by only a busy street…one side being Chuy, Uruguay and the other side being Chui, Brazil.    There was nobody standing in a tower of supremacy with the mirrored aviator sunglasses and a shotgun overlooking a tall wall resembling that of Israel or the US Border in which only superman can leap in a single bound or a Mexican jumping bean.
 
I didn’t understand the border crossing till now, as I write this.  It wasn’t until I bought my bus ticket to travel to Porto Alegre in Brazil when the woman at the ticket booth looked at my passport and told me that I needed to get an exit stamp.  “Huh?” I thought.  I didn’t even notice passing a border crossing.  She pointed at what direction I needed to start walking as I shuffled out of the building beginning my couple kilometer journey to get that magical exit stamp. 

Walking through the city, I made it to a road leading out of town looking as if it was leading to nowhere.  Eventually there was nothing but flat lands finally taking me to the friendly immigration troll.  Opening my passport, I don’t even think he looked at it – I could have pasted a photo of Mickey Mouse over my stellar photo and he would have still stamped it.
 
Confused about what country I was in, I ended up buying my bus ticket in Brazil and didn’t even know it – explaining why I didn’t know about the time change.  I stood outside an empty building waiting for my bus to arrive at any given moment as my big backpack lay safely locked up inside, hoping someone was going to open up the office.  Thankfully, I gained an hour instead of lost an hour.

Yes, I continue to dislike border crossings, especially when there are no truly defined borders.

Please, don’t play with the live animals!

October 9, 2011:  I couldn’t find the fishing village named Punta del Jesus, so I settled for the small fishing village named Punta del Diablo.  The conglomeration of sand, garbage and dead corpses made this my favorite beach in Uruguay and might even make the list of one of my top beaches in South America.  A peaceful place that lacked cement roads, high-rises, human whales and large groups of people made it an ideal place to stop and relax before crossing over into Brazil where I plan to pick up my speed.   

The South American way of disposing trash where ever you please are obvious even here, on the seemingly infinite stretch of beaches as garbage speckled the beaches.  Intertwined between the remains of the trash, laid a large number sea lions…dead sea lions to be more specific, resembling the aftermath of a mass clubbing.  Stopping to record the carnage with my camera, at times, the smell of death burned my eyes as I was only a foot or two away from the bloody or leathered fly infested bodies.

Yes, it is true…a dead animal cannot balance a beach ball on its nose, nor will it listen to any of your commands or silly noises so it will look in your direction as you attempt to take “THAT” photo.  But, if you enjoy taking photos of sea lions, the dead ones can be a lot easier. 

Seeing a sea lion laying on the beach just as still as the other bloated, leathered or decaying seal loins were, I thought there was a pattern forming.  So in my mental calculations, he was also dead.  Happy to see that the vultures have not yet made holes in him, I was thinking it was my lucky day.  Casually walking up to him...he picked up his head - Rule #1: if you enjoy taking photos of dead animals…you must first make sure they are dead.  Turning around toward me there was an incredibly loud scream coming from deep within him as he turned on the juice coming at me at top speeds.  I levitated backwards as the sea lion successfully made me fall for his bluff as he made a break for the water. 

Not thinking – for the second time today…from the one being chased I now became the chaser as I ran to cut him off from the ocean – must be “middle child syndrome” missing the art of teasing.  The sea lion stopped…and was about to turn around to go back up the beach, but then I realized that he was probably ill, laying on the beach for a reason.  I tried to get out of his way so he could continue to lounge around the beach but it was too late as he made a speedy waddle for the ocean.

Punta del Diablo is my last stop here in Uruguay before crossing over into Brazil.  In two more days I will be completely lost in a language I have not yet begun to study.  Perhaps tonight…or tomorrow, I will learn the basics of Portuguese before making it to that imaginary line that cuts across an real piece of land.

Hunting for Gauchos

October 8, 2011: Taking bus after bus from one small town to another small town here in Uruguay, I have been hunting for Gauchos. A Gaucho is a term that is used for the South American cowboy.

After days of searching for some of dem Gauchos, I can see now why towns of Tacuarembo, Melo and Treinta Tres are not tourist hot spots. The Gauchos here do not seem to be dressing up for outsiders and they do not even ride horses around town. Yes, they ride horses but not of the flesh, they are iron horses…either a moped or dirt bike. I even saw an oversized Gaucho relocating a roped up living horse on his tiny beat up moped.

My trip to the countryside to see my stereo typical vision of Gauchos roaming the streets everywhere did not transpire. There were only a few men wearing high leather boots supporting gigantic leather belts similar to those worn by championship boxers and there were zero women in frilly dresses.

Next time I will do it the easy way and just take the $78USD tour to a Gaucho farm outside Montevideo, since on the advertisement outside the tourist offices; they were all playing dress up. The best part is that you didn’t need to travel about 15 hours on buses from town to town to see a measly handful of the Gauchos I came to see.

Please note: Photo pulled from Wikipedia at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_Gaucho.png

Tried to kick a dog…in its head

October 6, 2011: While in the town of Tacuarembo, I found myself trying to get lost – which is typically not hard for me to do. Coming back off some dirt roads that lead out of the town, I notice some children playing soccer in front of a four walled structure they presumably call home. They stopped playing when I was passing them and just stared at me, following me with their eyes. Even in such a white country as Uruguay, I still seem to stand out. I smiled and said hello as I continued down the road – then it happened…

From the lower right hand corner of my eye I saw a dog coming towards me, being extra quiet…thinking that perhaps he wanted just a little sniff of my clothed sphincter or to maybe hump my leg some. When the dog noticed he was compromised, he reverted from stealth mode to attack mode. Coming at me faster, I thought that he was bluffing me. I started walking faster – suddenly confused about the basic rules of engagement with a dog, I just thought it was better not to look directly at him, using my extremely tooled peripheral vision and I continued moving forward.

He approached me quickly with a sharp set of heat seeking missiles that lined his mouth in a disorder fashion. He went doggy style and came up from behind, telling me something that I didn’t understand nor care to understand. The dog’s behavior showed me that he was obviously not interested in sniffing a grown man’s butts or humping a strange male.

The “flight mode” in me was no longer an option. Turning toward him, I give him a few air kicks to the head. My adrenaline spiked as his smiled at me showing of his pearly whites. The other dogs that were at the house next door were much larger and began to go crazy, beginning to sing as if they were members of a Baptist church choir.

My vision was not crystal clear due to the quick unexpected spike of adrenaline, but since I remembered the other dogs being tied up the first time I passed by when leaving the town, so I focused on my current situation.

After a few more football punter style air kicks, I am glad the dog eventually turned back and stopped following me, going to wherever he came from. I was actually happy today to not be prepared for a confrontation with a dog, rather than a person or persons with not the best intensions. It has been awhile since I was caught off guard. While coming off a substantially large adrenaline spike, I was a tad shaky and a bit dizzy.

Hindsight…I thought, “Why didn’t I have a rock in my pocket?” This is because when typically bad dogs see rocks, they have had prior experience with them being thrown at them, knowing that they hurt. This tactic has a 93.966666% success rate. I wonder if this was the true origin of pet rocks.

So I suppose it is time for me to start traveling with a pet…a pet rock.

Uruguayan boys are all a bunch of crossdressers!

October 4, 2011: I have noticed that the boys in Uruguay seem to be taught to crossdress at a very young age – to be more precise…from my understanding, it starts the first day they go to school. The uniforms seem to be universal: A white doctor looking coat with a large loose bow around the neck – NOT a bow tie…but a bow.

How did this come about? As you are well aware…working women’s wardrobes have changed over the years, capitalizing on the behavior of men and their monkeylike behavior desiring to hump more than the common dog. Minimizing a large amount of needing material which resulted in shorter skirts and more ventilating tops…the large oversized loose feminine bow slowing worked its way out of the fashion industry for the modern day woman.

So what do you do with the surplus bows, which once represented the Woman’s Revolution? Well, for starters, you can use them for the holidays to pin or tape to some special present when giving dogs, horses, donkeys or even something like a bike or new Lexus.

Now…what do you do when you still have a surplus? It’s easy…you give some politician an untraceable “gift” and before you know it…it will become a required item for the public school systems uniform policy, recycling the never ending surplus while creating a country of crossdressers.

Even Polo, Banana Republic, Abercrombie & Fitch and other larger clothing companies have been scared to capitalize in this market without yet placing their brands on this stylish bow.

FYI: I so wanted you to see this bow, I had to take this photo in a child molester-like fashion from a park bench outside a mall. What I do for this blog at times amazes me.

Tickity tickity tick tick tock…click

October 4, 2011: My backpack is ready to go. On Thursday morning, I will be leaving on a stretched bus as it takes me north, into the interior of Uruguay. To do what? I don’t quite yet know, though I would like to see where the cowboys and cowgirls live.

Perhaps in my free time, I will do a little research and see if the men in Uruguay lose their virginity with donkeys such as the young folk do in most other South America countries. I said I would stop my research many posts ago, but…I am curious only from a business standpoint. When my feminine donkey condom starts selling in stores throughout South America…it might be wise to also sell them in Uruguay.

In southern Uruguay, I have been continuing to do an enormous amount of people watching, going to almost every museum, park, McDonald’s and even a scantly clothed street functions while waiting to make an almost perfect entry in into Brazil. Since my Visa is limited with only a possibility to extend - not a guaranteed extension, I need to actually have somewhat of an imaginary trail when I cross the border.

With a rough plan on what I want to see, it looks like I will be exploring Brazil in a snake like fashion – meaning I will be going up, a little right, up, way left, up, way right, up, a little right and then way way way left. With all of these ups, rights and lefts…who knows…maybe I will get a little dizzy and find myself somewhere completely different.

I was once a long time ago…Japanese

September 17, 2011: Boredom always has a way to set in. As you can see by this photo…a camera is a great way for me to combat boredom, keeping myself occupied.

This week I left Montevideo and headed to Piriapolis, setting up a new base camp, at a beach town that I am told poor families go to for the weekends. I hope that this town of 8089 people keeps specializing in entertaining poor people and frugal backpackers because to me, it is much nicer here than some of the higher class beach towns. The sand seems to look the same and even tastes the same…the water is the same…the houses that sit in back of you are not as expensive nor do they frequently reach 20+ stories…but the restaurants are more “real” and the people seem to be a lot more pleasant.

My favorite camera of the three in which I am traveling with, was sent back to Canon in the United States almost one month ago for repairs. I will be getting it back in 3 to 5 business days according to the United States Post Office, giving me more options on the photos I am able to take and where I will go next to take these photos. You would never think that traveling with 3 cameras would not be enough. But, the past 2.5 or so years, I had 4 critical repairs made for all 3 cameras…all failing me at least once.

If I just had one more SLR camera to add to my collection of cameras…it would be perfect but a lot more worrisome as the net value of my backpacks would significantly increase. This increase would fuel a little more stress when I leaving my valuables in a room with anywhere between 1 to 11 other backpackers. There could also be additional unnecessary thoughts when moving from place to place, especially now, since next to my hostel there is group of six 15 year olds that seem to enjoy robbing backpackers every couple of days.

Traveling would be much more convenient if I was back to one camera…but then, taking photos is one of my favorite things to do with my time. Perhaps one day I will do something with the over 65,000 photos (more or less) I have taken on this trip.

Yes, I believe that I was a long time ago, in my past life…Japanese.

Mullet Men and donuts

September 17, 2011: If I could only get enough courage to grow a stylish mullet…I would seamlessly blend into this cracker dominant westernized city. Though the color of my skin camouflages me, it is what I do and the noises that exit my mouth that makes me stand out.

The weather has been warming up enough here so that I can finally enjoy the beaches while only supporting a polyester t-shirt and a 100 weight polar fleece that accompanies my thick 300 weight mountaineering fleece.

I seem to have indivertibly become a sand collector while people/dog watching. Sand has an amazing method to make its way back to my hostel or friends house by any means possible. From hiding in my shoes, head stubble to jumping in any and all cracks and holes – it makes it almost impossible to fulfill the tree huggers’ motto “Take only photographs, leave only footprints.” Can the Sierra Club or some other grass roots organization make a clause, stating that taking sand from a public beach is permissible if not purposely done?

A few week ago, in a miniature cement parking lot between the strip of high-rise apartments and sand, I observed a reenactment of the film Mad Max starring the Uruguayan mullets with their taped/glued up motorbikes and black matte cars. One man was showing his inability to not be able do a complete donut in the parking lot as individuals volunteered their friends, loved ones, parents and children to become buffers to prevent any cars from being scratched if it happens to plow into another.

Perhaps the mullet man in the car should consider selling some of that hair from the back of his mullet to some organization that makes wigs for cancer patients or cross dressers so he could put some needed money into the performance of his engine so he can get all the way around, completing the donut. An exhaust system wouldn’t be a bad idea either, to lower the output of decibels so that he doesn’t overpower the sound of men who play dress up on their Harley Davidson’s or kids on their obnoxiously loud mopeds.

Please note: Mad Max car photo pulled from cartown.com

Am I an addict or just a casual user?

September 14, 2011: Being here in Uruguay for way way too long…I somehow lost an addiction and found another. What addiction did I so happen to conquer? I kick my pop addiction…soda pop to some, gaseosa to those who don’t know how to speak English or who never tried. I am so over the carbonated beverages but now, I am loving the herb. The great thing about this herb is that it doesn’t require me to get a bogus doctor's note stating that I have cancer, MS or a bad case of PMS. I don’t even have to visit Coolio or any street corner Bob Marley look alike nor support a tie-dye shirt with the herb pasted proudly to the front.

So what is the herb? Mate. Mate…spelt, M-A-T-E. The following is pulled straight from Wikipedia taking out a little and adding a little of my own wording: “The infusion called mate is prepared by steeping dry leaves (and twigs) of the mate plant in hot water. Drinking mate with friends or random strangers off the street with facial herpes from a shared hollow gourd (also called a guampa or mate in Spanish) with a metal shiny straw (a bombilla in Spanish) is a common social practice in Argentina, Uruguay and other places you won’t remember. It is done among people of all ages, sexes and social classes including the mangy backpackers that might be passing through. ”

Wikipedia also kind of - sort of states, “The flavor of brewed mate is strongly vegetal, herbal, and grassy, reminiscent of some varieties of green tea, dirt and a hint of 3 day old socks.” Okay…no more quoting or semi quoting.

I am now officially on the “Mate Bandwagon” becoming an active participant in this mate custom, consuming this green herb by the kilo from an unsanitary filthy community straw and if not more filthy gourd being used as a cup. Try to share a straw at home and that person will more than likely let you finish the beverage or replace the straw for a fresh one without a tad of guilt.

To join in on this cultural experience I had to make some adjustments to how I feel about…germs. Starting off slow, I am now at almost Olympic qualification speed and accuracy as I scan the lips of all consumers for any possible contagious illnesses or facial herpes when the mate is passed around a circle as people take hits from the chrome straw.

If I spot a potential threat on my short term or long term health…I am ready at a nanoseconds notice to release a lie with no guilt that I either don’t like mate or that I am not feeling very well, quickly following it up with a crunched “I don’t like it” face or a “turn your head to the left” cough. Even if I chose to be less…communal, it is not possible to pull out my own chrome straw or to bring my own cup and ask them to pour you some. The consumption of this leafy substance is more socially complicated...but, what is there in life that is not complicated?

I am already bald and not 40…what more can I ask for?

September 1, 2011: My 39th birthday turned out to be a success. I am already bald and I am not 40…what more can I ask for? I received enough birthday greeting to outnumber the average number of junk mail I get every day in my hotmail account and spent plenty of hours on Skype with family and friends.

It is amazing how technology can make you not feel so far away. Those computer geniuses down in Silicon Valley even help me enjoy a piece of cake in Germany that I was able to blow out over Skype…sort of blow it. With my virtual cake and the piece my friend gave me here in Montevideo, I was able to rack up an ample amount of wishes today…I just now hope that at least 1 of the 4 comes true.

I hate looking forward to being a year older but next year will be my 40th birthday. It concerns me because I hear people at this age are susceptible to having a mid-life crisis. Worse case scenario…I guess in my case, a mid-life crisis means coming home and getting a job – it doesn’t sound all that bad - laughing.

“Two and a Half Inches” starring Anthony Supertramp

August 31, 2011: Sometimes...I can’t believe what I find myself doing during my travels. The other day, my friend suggested that I go to the casting to be in an episode of the sitcom Two and a Half Men that was being filmed in Uruguay. Thinking that they must need some cheap English speaking extras, I thought…why not, it is a cheap free experience and the only time that I will waste is that of the casting company if I don’t happen to get a part…any part.

My appointment with the casting company seemed to be at an awkward time. Walking down this dark poorly lit abandon looking street at around 8:12 in the evening; I was thinking that this must be some sort of scam where I will have to pay an upfront fee to join an agency to get work as an actor. Or, even worse - or even better, depending on how you look at it and how you feel about sexual diseases...I was thinking what are the odds were that this was actually a “bait and switch” scam where I come in with the intension to be filmed in a sitcom and then find myself a few hours later starring in a skin flick called “Two and a Half Inches“ being distributed in the backrooms of the sketchy DVD shops throughout the world with a XXX label along the binding.

Pushing the button on the intercom so that I could make it up to the second floor of the building…I waited. Some noise gushed out of the device on the wall but I did not understand much as the woman spoke Spanish at crack-like speeds. Stating that I needed to speak to Natalia, I heard a buzz, granting me access inside.

Walking up the long set of stairs into an empty hallway…I stood there…not know where to go. A book sat there with some paper so I signed in and look over an agreement that was placed next to it - thankfully it was in…Spanish. The writing was not a font size of 1 or 2, did not have big complicated words, nor was it a large agreement, so I concluded that it must have been a waiver.
After reviewing this harmless paper, I was given an internal shot of anxiety. This is where I discovered that this wasn’t the casting for being an extra in a sitcom, having to say a line or two or three. There was a break in communication somewhere since this was for a commercial for Two and a Half Men in which required only one man and one woman. Now that I knew I was not going to be able to hide behind a bunch of waiters, bartenders and office temps who inspire to be actors, I was hesitant on even going into the next room.

“What am I doing?” I once again thought. I decided to quickly mentally translate my English thoughts into Spanish on how I was confused about what they were casting for so I could quickly leave and thank them for their time.

Being called into the room, there was the videographer and a super tall thin model looking actress bent over taking off her high slut shoes as she was putting on a smaller more practical version of slut shoes. Glancing over to my right I noticed the white room where the lighting and video camera was set up. Since this area did not contain a bed, I safely concluded that this was a legitimist studio.

The Spanish words that I previously thought of to quickly end my actor career before it even had a chance to begin, sat at the tip of my tongue…but never managed to fall completely out as I found myself following the directions of the videographer placing myself in the white box – internally laughing to myself, not believing that I am standing here under all of these lights doing this.

During the next 30 minutes I was suppose to act…I was suppose to act like a bad actor applying for a job to take over Charlie Sheen job on Two and a Half Men. From having to perform impromptu themes such as picking up women, telling a joke, letting out fake obnoxious laughs, doing a serious impersonation and then finishing with a silly one - pulling off my version of a chicken with style – my specialty.

Since acting like a bad actor was what they were looking for…I couldn’t have been more perfect for the part because I am not an actor. If I claimed to be one…I would unfortunately be a really really bad actor like a Steven Stiegel or Sylvester Stallone without the muscle mass. I have never performed any type of Hollywood style acting till my futile attempts today - except for the rare occasions that it is necessary for me to produce some fake external tears and to pull off those well needed occasional lies throughout my lifetime.

Not expecting to hear anything back from the studio, I was shocked that yesterday I was called and how they wanted to make sure I didn’t leave the country, needing me to stay here for the next few days. What?! Yes, I made the final casting. I must have been really good at being a bad actor…really good.

My 39th birthday was today and I seemed to spend most part of the day inside my hostel during the typical South American business hours so that I could answer any important calls. After the casting company called me to know what my cloth sizes were, I thought that just maybe…just maybe I would soon have to explain to immigration on how acting is not really “working” since I am visiting this country on a tourist visa…technically making it unable for me to legally work here in Uruguay.

As the day came to the end, I saw that my finger were still crossed, but still not so tightly crossed. I must not have been bad enough of an actor to be chosen for the part…but, I now have a better understanding of a small part that is involved in making a commercial and how individuals might be drawn to questionable day jobs with the hope to someday be on television. I was unable to take a ride today, but attempting to jump on the wagon was exciting.

I might like you more if you were dead

(photo pulled from www.somormujo.net)

August 23, 2011: Why is it when someone is dead…you like them more? In the past two weeks I have listened to Amy Winehouse more now than the past few years. It seems to be playing everywhere in South America...from my room in my hostel to the cafes, taxis and restaurants that are not tourist based establishments.

I would expect this type of music coming from the Planet Hollywoods, Hard Rock Cafes and at good ole Ronald McDonalds, but from a man who doesn't speak a taste of English making food in the street in his steel capsule? There seems to be a pattern...somewhat the same pattern when I was in Colombia in 2009 when Michael Jackson died.

Well, as of August 20th, 2011…I came to discover that I now like Amy Winehouse. I guess I am a little late even though I had her music stored deep in the depths of my iPod since according to iTunes, December 19th, 2009. In this time frame, her voice visited me only once through my cheap black Sony ear buds - and that was just 1 of the 11 songs on her Back to Black album.

(Photo pulled from www.cerealbits.com)

People liking individuals more when they are dead does not just apply to musicians. This it goes for: artists, ex-girlfriends, actors, saints, suicide bombers, loved ones, pets and Jesus. Items such as cars, jobs, apartments, cities and cereals such as Mr. T cereal can also be safely added to this list…they also seem to be missed more deeply when they are no longer in your life or available.

So, I might like you now and others may not…but who knows, perhaps if you were dead, we would all like you just a little bit more.

I can now see why a dog and single people complement each other

August 22, 2011: Arriving in Punta del Este, an international beach resort in Uruguay’s winter, I checked into my cold moist, mold coated 6 bed dorm. While I was in the lobby, I sadly ran into one of the most unhappy looking antisocial groups of Brazilians, for the second time. I don’t quite know if they ever smiled in their entire lives by seeing how highly underdeveloped their facial muscles were…not the slightest twitch when I said hello - a grunt would have been satisfactory. At least a grunt would have explained they might have come from somewhere in the depth of the Amazon.

Even Toilet Paper Girl surprisingly sat expressionless, saying nothing. You would think that she would have felt obligated to at least respond to my hello after saving her a pile of embarrassment in the hostel in Montevideo as she was walking out of the restroom…trailing a long piece of toilet paper – just catching her as she was about to walk out the door as I ran down the hall. If she wasn’t a beautiful face painted clown I would say that she was just shy or a tongue amputee…but sadly, I think she had a healthy tongue and was leaning toward the other end of the personality spectrum.

Doing some self photos of myself in front a buried giant on the beach…I had a bit too much time on my hands and began to think a tad too much about, “Stuff”. Not even 5 or so seconds after, a golden dog on crack came springing up to me with his tall going back and forth as fast as a windshield wiper stuck on high. He became my yapping happy friend for the day as I walked along the pleasant developed beaches. This dog’s tail nor did he himself show the slightest sign of exhaustion as he fetched a large pinecone without hesitation, not knowing the feeling of boredom.

Throughout my walk, I can see how some professional baseball players only throw for a few innings. Wanting to stop…the smile on the dogs face forced me into other innings. I was contemplating about throwing with my opposite arm to pull off an impressive girly throw but decided against it - just in case someone was watching from inside one of the deserted summer homes or condos lining the beach.

When it was time to leave the trailless sand shoreline and to enter the concrete maze of guidance…I tried to ignore the dog so that he would return back to somewhere. But…he didn’t, making me nervous as the cars horns would belch when would imitate a chicken dodging traffic, to those close encounters with mean dogs and those others that just wanted to take a deep breath of his butt. Whenever I thought I lost him, I would see him running along the side of me to mark some shrubbery or post with his bottomless bladder.

I can at times enjoy the company of other people’s dogs…but, I never really wanted one for my own to follow and pick up their steaming dog piles with a plastic bag – except for in the winter, where it becomes a small temporary hand warmer. But, today I could how a steamy pile on the sidewalk or the beach might be worth it…even in the summer.

10 days, 12 hours, 39 minutes and counting

August 18, 2011: The past 10 days, 11 hours, 24 minutes and counting I have been in the capital of Uruguay desperately trying to figure out where to explore between the small outbursts of the sun while my friend Anita is at work. As the grey days build into towers, my skin is somehow getting whiter…even without the application of the special Michael Jackson Cream.

My Casio Solar watch is just as it says, “Solar”. In consumer lingo: it only works if there is sun every few days. Normally a watch weighing down my underpowered left wrist is not necessary, but today was the rare occasion that I needed to know the time. Sitting next to a window while fueling up on some empty calories, I had to switch my watch to my other wrist directing it towards the very few rebellious rays that made it through the sad clouds between its tears. After an 85 minutes of this (just a guess…remember, it didn’t work), I resuscitated it, bringing it back from the dead…coughing up some useful numbers.

I am getting the feeling that Uruguay is a place that seems to be a summer Mecca for tourism with all of its beaches. When it is not summer, things might be cheaper but might not be worth the cheapness. If taking cheap legal peripheral busting peeks at women’s flesh in bikinis was my sole reasoning to come to Uruguay, I would say that this trip it is a failure because the only flesh on the beach that I so unfortunately saw was the drunken homeless man’s crusty wiener as he was urinating in the sand.

Once again, I am found myself somewhere that would not be much of an interest for me if it were not for its residents - in this case; the thermos carrying, cup touting, silver pimped straw in their Yerba mate, drinking addicts by the millions. Meeting my friend Anita last year in Argentina, I visited her here in Uruguay and this phenomenal social reaction has happened. Her friendship grew into other friendships and then more friendships, eventually becoming no longer reliant on the original roots. So…my original plans to be in Montevideo for a few days happily blossomed to 10 days, 12 hours, 39 minutes and counting.

The Chinese Zodiac labels me as a rat…I agree

August 11, 2011: Yes…this post is cryptic or you might even say...poetic. I am Sorry for my friends who English is their second, third or fourth language. For those few individuals that English is their fifth language…too bad - laughing.

Throughout my rat life I have managed to be a somewhat effective scavenger, collecting and hiding shinny things in this rat race. In the process, I also gathered bits and pieces to help me figure out how to escape this giant rat maze.

Successfully I managed to climb out of a rat maze and balanced on the top edge for quite some time, but I somehow have fallen and I have not yet realized how far or deep I fell.

Lately, I seem to have been scurrying from one place to another...setting up my temporary nomadic home for a few days or weeks here or there…going and stopping whenever it feels right - even though the “rightness” can at times crumble.

Knowing how it is to be outside this maze and not having to play if I don’t want to, is a wonderful feeling. But, oddly at times being inside the maze it is exactly what I miss...the safety of being able to lean on or against the walls or the comforts of knowing what the next familiar turn will bring.

What is even at the end of these human rat mazes anyhow? Cheese? If so, I would like to just buy a loaf…please? - smile.

22,000,000,000,000,000,000,034 sperm…more or less

August 7, 2011: Leaving Buenos Aires to go to Colonia was difficult but needed. I was on the verge of staying, to wait out the winter there and head north, south, east or west once those warmer sauna-like countries decided to share some degrees. I could see my shoe strings coming to life as they began to lace me into the city - not that it would be a bad thing…it is just that my Gilligan’s Island-like “3 hour tour” has somehow turned into a 2+ year tour with perhaps many more seasons to come.

Colonia in Uruguay is a great little place with a verbally interesting history, in combination of a visually appealing ex-colonial city luring bodies from all over the world to see this UNESCO site. My friend Monica from Spain and myself being from the United States are living proof that when you put some letters in front of some sight like UNESCO (even though we don't have a clue what it stands for)...people will come.

Once inside the old section of Colonia, the town ambushes you with restaurants, desperate money sucking museums and enough souvenirs’ that if a Chinese soldier was to replace each item “Made in China” they might have a force large enough to take over the entire continent.

The walking tour that I went on was interesting. Our guide seemed to be running a little bit late for the tour. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was on a powerful narcotic or if it was she finished enjoying a nice morning with a bus load of elderly German tourists who she picked up at the Karaoke bar from the night before. Her hair seemed to have a huge gigantic wad of some thick blob that looked like a sperm count of an estimated 22,000,000,000,000,000,000,034. It made the scene with Cameron Diaz in the move “Something about Mary” look like a dry run.

My next career move…a professional Hustler

August 6, 2011: The word “Hustler” is a noun. Encarta Dictionary’s definition is as follows. Hustler: a prostitute, especially a streetwalker or one who solicits in bars. It also states: a small-time operator who engages in illegal activities such as petty theft or illegal gambling. I am thinking more of the second part of the definition…the illegal gambling part to be more precise.
I have known for a while that I am gifted at the game, Yahtzee. What is Yahtzee? Yahtzeeonline.org said that “it was invented in 1954 by a Canadian couple who often played it with friends on their yacht.” The website also said, “the roots of the game go way back in game history. It is said to have been derived from a number of traditional dice games such as Puerto Rican game Genarala, and English games Cheerio and Poker Dice.” I will not quote the part that says…”it’s a simple game that is largely dependent on the players' luck.” This is not true…it isn’t…it just isn’t. Get a 3 year old throwing dice and they wouldn’t have a clue on what to do except for throw the dice against a wall or choke on them – good if you are losing…I suppose.

Yes, I might have lost a few games in my life in Yahtzee and I might not be champion of the world…but, with the skillz (yep, that is not a typo) that I do have, I could perhaps make a living off of it from fellow backpackers and friends that I meet in my travels.

I don’t say this without the numbers to back it up. Just within the past week I was able to continue to hold my championship title for Australia and I just added a new country to the list…Spain. I am not saying that they were easy to beat since they did challenge me…some. I am just saying that I am that good.

Now, I just need to start putting something tangible down so that when I win, there is something for me to gain. Perhaps I can first start off gambling for small items like coffee, tea, fake sugar tablets. But over time, work my way up to malaria pills or even McDonald vouchers. My goal would be to one day be playing on ESPN’s Yahtzee championship in Las Vegas so that I can be the one of the elite Yahtzee players sitting around a table supporting some strongly tinted aviators playing for millions.

Yahtzeeonline.org states that, “Currently at least 50 million games are sold each year.” With this many games in circulation, how could there not be a Yahtzee championship? Where is Don King when you need him? Yes, the average age of this hypothetical championship might be 12 years old, but really…it wouldn’t be taking candy from a baby…it would be more like taking money from a baby.

Until this happens, I will continue to practice whipping my friends. When they are tired of losing, I will just have to play it online. The best part of playing it online is that it will let me work on speeding up my decision making process if it one day becomes a timed event such as in the silly game, Chess.

If all fails with becoming the definition of Hustler that I am striving for…I guess I could resort to prostitution. Since I don’t care too much for bars, I could fill in the niche and be the small-time operator that solicits in coffee shops.

The Turdler Strikes!

August 1, 2011: 2 out of the 3 public toilets at my hostel were marked by the Turdler. I don’t know if the person does it to make a statement or some mental condition. He/she or shehe/heshe must have been doing toe touches while defecating to get it that high up on the once shinny white porcelain like that. This might be a good day for the maid to call in sick or come to work drunk.

The travelers here are quite talented and impressive…really impressive.

The sad thing is that I was thinking about going upstairs to get my camera so I could take a photo to show you…but thankfully for you and the mental trauma you might have sustained, I didn’t want to wake up my 3 roommates that have a sleeping schedule like 6 year olds.

A bomb goes off in my roommates mouth

July 30, 2011: The last few days I have been wandering around Buenos Aires, stopping in and visiting old mansions, cathedrals and buildings mirroring those in France while lounging around plazas absorbing the way of life in this gargantuan city. This is clearly a nice tourist orientated city with beautiful people and things to see. It even has a great McDonalds with an excellent view from the full glass wall on the second floor overlooking the Plaza de la Republica making it a great spot for studying Spanish and people watching. With all this to write about in more detail, I have come to notice that most of the material I am writing about lately in my journals are directly related to what happens at the hostel.

American del Sur in Buenos Aires has been one of my favorite hostels in South America. It is not just the facilities but the amazing staff that works here. Though for some reason, this place seems to attract international entertainment on a daily basis whether you want it or not…and it is all included in the price of renting a bed.

Switching rooms yesterday, I no longer wake up to stars. Instead l woke up this morning hearing some splashing on the ground near my bed. I later noticed this clear thick liquid was on a direct path to my backpack, but fell short when a bomb when off in my roommates mouth. It would have struck my backpack if she would have had a better arc, but fortunately, the girl who was fully dressed in her prostitute-like stockings, missed.

For the next hour, I had the luxury of hearing wet belches. I worried that if I fell back asleep, I might have a dead roommate from choking in her bed that was cleverly transformed into a water bed – actually it was more like a…vomit bed.

I guess…I guess I was not that worried about her since I ended up falling back to sleep during my voluntary shift as I had my bed sheet covering my face to withstand the smell. She woke me up around 830am when she stumbled into the restroom, miraculously dodging the blast zone to release the 10 or so gallons that she somehow fit in her small frame. I felt that even though I did a bad job taking care of a person I never meet, my shift was over…so I headed out of the room that smelt like the stench of a filthy sobriety tank to enjoy some breakfast.

I was happy that I was able to eat this morning and even happier that my roommate was not on the top bunk above me. As for her…it is going to be a long day…a bomb did go off in her mouth and she lives to tell about it – no thanks to me.

Girl pulls up her shirt in bed to show me her two stars

July 28, 2011: I wasn’t going to post anything about the girl the other morning that showed me her 2 stars after lifting up her shirt – but, I just decide to modify my journal entry a bit and post it.

At 8am I shut off my alarm and headed to breakfast – after 30 minutes of pushing snooze. When I returned I noticed one of my 3 other roommates who got in quite late was awake. Sitting up to talk to me, she seemed to have been still impaired from a late night of celebrating her birthday that understandably morphed into an early morning.

She told me that she was worried about me since she saw that my bed was made, thinking that I never made it back from the Brazilian embassy yesterday. After about 40 seconds of conversation, she got all excited and wanted to show me “them” – I will take full blame…I asked if I could see them. Then there she went reaching for the bottom of her shirt and pulling it up and over “them”…her tattoos. She didn’t just have one star…she had two of them.

What is it about girls these getting stars? When I was younger I saw constellations of stars all the time while looking through the magazines my friend’s parents hid throughout the house – though they were so inappropriately photo shopped, covering the main thing a boy wants to see – needing to leave everything up to my imagination.

Now it seems to me that the star tattoo is becoming quite a popular tattoo, taking over the infamous red rose, tribal tattoo, barbed wire and even the Chinese signs. The advantage to the star though is that it has no boundaries. They find their way on chests, necks, backs, backsides, wrists and even the face such as the Belgian 18 year old decided to do one thoughtless night. She was a quitter thought…she stopped at a mere 56 stars.

Yes, I saw stars today, but today, I just saw two. I don’t think I will never understand tattoos…but who knows what tomorrow will bring.

(star photo pulled from http://weeklyworldnews.com/headlines/9062/girl-has-56-stars-tattooed-on-face/)

Attacked by magical street people wanting my backpack

July 23, 2011: I heard over the years about this magical “disappearing backpack trick” being performed by street people, but never seen it in action. Though today, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to see this risky feat starring…me. I was even selected out of the crowd of others outside the main bus terminal in Buenos Aires, Argentina. In a way…I felt…special.

After a 4 hour bus ride from Rosario on chairs as large as my grandparents Lazy Boy’s, Cecile and I stepped off the yellow brick road as we walked from the main bus terminal to the subway. Three weeks ago we were informed that these 2 blocks were dangerous…and I thought…what can possibly happen in 2 blocks? I happened to discover…a lot.

It was 3pm and the daylight was working in our favor. The walkway littered with multitudes of street people selling anything and buying everything ranging from clothing, TV antennas, watches and anything you thought you would never need.

ACT 1: The sidewalk began to narrow, funneling us like cattle. I noticed that I somehow obtained a grayish thick substance on my hand. At first, I thought it was the excrement from an extremely large bird or flying hippopotamus. I then noticed the back of my pants and backpack were also hit quite badly, quickly thinking and quickly eliminating the thought that I sat in something. It all clicked…we were being attacked by the magical street people.

Highly alert, things became as clear as a professional fighter in the ring. My backpack morphed into a turtle shell attaching strongly to my body, making it difficult for anyone to remove it, while giving my rolling backpack a rock climbers grip.

In order for this magical trick to properly work, you need to stop and let a selected street person that is placed there to help you clean up the mess. This is when the involuntary transfer of your belongings takes place. It all happened just like clockwork. It was a classical textbook theft that was taking place and ACT 2 started right on Que.

ACT 2: A women motioned that I had stuff all over me. I thanked her as I continued to walk in the funnel knowing others were close by…waiting…waiting for me to make a mistake so that they can make a dash into the crowded masses and side streets with my most important material weight.

Making contact with Cecile, I informed her that we were being attacked. She has also heard about this trick since her friend was hit in Buenos Aires, unfortunately losing that battle.

There were so many people around us it was becoming difficult to digest what was going on. Cecile and I stuck together, not stopping. Arriving at the entrance of the subway station we took the battle underground. We made it to an open area where some small designated shops and restaurants were. Putting ourselves at a vantage point, we now had an unobstructed view, being able to see if the street people were going to come down after us…and this they did.

ACT 3: While Cecile opened my rolling backpack for some baby butt wipes, I scanned the area, watching her back as we communicated about what was taking place. Then there it was…a man comes up to me and asked if I wanted a tissue as he pulls a tissue out of his pocket, dangling it. At first, I said “no thank you” in Spanish as he continued to hold the tissue out, acting as if he was trying to help. This is where I was supposed to take off my turtle shell and begin the cleanup process – completing the magical trick of the disappearing backpack.

I didn’t move from against the wall, grabbed it and thanked him…wiping my already clean hands. This is when I think he knew, that he was compromised. Stepping back, the man stood there looking at me. There was no reason for him to have come from down the stairs. Placing a quick call, he walked back up the subways stairs he just came down…leaving another suspicious man leaning against a pole, pretending that he didn’t know the guy.
ACT 4: The street people seemed to be working in a 3 person team. Next up was with the women who originally informed me above the ground about the mess on my backpack. Her credit card would not work to get her into the area where the ATMs were – hinting if I would help swipe her in with my card. This is an act that I was not familiar with. I didn’t help her, but it did hurt my feelings that they insulted my intelligence.

Noticing a police officer who was not that far away, Cecile and I moved closer to him so that it would give us a better spot to evaluate how this situation was evolving.

Once making it on the subway, I could do nothing but laugh and feel as if I was just earned a bonus backpack - it should have been stolen. But, not this time…not this time. There will be a time that someone will get my turtle shell and take home the prize…I am sure of it. But to get it from me…they have to have a bigger head or simply be brutally forward.