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.

How did I end up here?

June 12th, 2009: Passing in front of a mangy bar in the small town of San Agustin, I noted a massive gathering of drunken locals who were waving me in for a drink. Thinking that I have been interacting with the drunken travelers a lot more than the drunken locals, this would be a good opportunity for me to if anything, practice some Spanish. With nothing planned for the evening anyhow, I went in with the intent to stay for one drink – just one.

Sitting down at the table, I was able to get a better look at the individuals…feeling as if I just placed myself in the center of a bunch of small time petty criminals – quickly moving my internal readiness to DEFCON 3. I was immediately given a small plastic cup for shots, looking as if it was straight out of a child’s Fisher Price bar set. It was promptly filled by someone who might have forgotten his glasses this morning, as it overflowed onto the table. Taking the shot and practicing everything I knew in Spanish, took 15 seconds…total.

The locals were eager to know how my Jeep tour was today and what I thought of the English girl who was in my group. “What?” I asked, even though I clearly heard them - not remembering seeing any of the people I was sitting with at the bar. Asking one of the guy’s on how he knew what I did today…he leaned back against the wall in his chair, with no expression on his face – looking as if he gave himself a botched Botox job in his leathery skin. Eventually after great thought…he told me, “It is a small town.” So when they asked me where I was staying and being that I didn’t want them to know, it was pointless telling them that I wasn’t sure of the name, since I was quickly helped out by another man, telling me that I am now at the Casa de Felipe – so…why did they ask? After tonight I will have to think about my desire to one day live in a small town, where everyone knows more…than just your name.

One shot after the other, the vile liquid kept being forced down my throat causing me to create a wide variety of unusual faces as it went down. Even worse, I somehow acquired a magical cup that would refill itself as soon as I would finish a shot. As the night went on, the table was no longer functional for anything but a bottle stand, as it was littered with empty vessels. At one point, I had to stop drinking so that I could have what was consumed catch up with me…needing to figure out how altered my decision making process was. Soon, our table harbored 6 1/2 intoxicated individuals and was slowly growing. Figuring that being 1/2 intoxicated was enough for me, I decided that I needed to start working on an exit strategy to go home.

With the locals wanting to do some business, starting with Leatherface, he told me he can get me stuff…rubbing his nose. After giving him an awkward look, he did it again…rubbing his nose and said, “If I don’t like….I’m sorry, no problem.” I was confused with his words but not his actions, turning down the local special. Soon after a Frankensteinish looking man with a metal plate in his head, which was installed by a blacksmith, asked me a leading question on what I thought about Colombian women. I told him that I thought they have wonderful…personalities. Then he asked me what he really wanted to know, ”Do you want a Colombian woman?” as he pulled out his large black book – not knowing how he could fit something as large as the yellow pages in his pocket. Declining, Leatherface sharply asked me, “You not police, are you?”

Uncomfortably still around, I thought, “How did I end up here?” I needed to leave…a long time ago. Getting on my jacket, Frankenstein asked me if I could help him out with his bill. That is a strange request, but then it clicked…I am the walking, talking, human ATM machine. Figuring that I bought more than I drank, I didn’t owe anyone anything. Not helping him out, I asked, “Why don’t you ask your friends?” Feeling a bit hurt, I was wondering if this is the reason they wanted me to join them in the first place. Being a good salesman/conman, he was persistent and kept asking me for money…starting high and was slowly working his way down. With no reason to negotiate, I practiced being a politician and issued a false apology, lied to him by saying I didn’t have enough money to help and finished it off by telling everyone that it was nice meeting them. Getting up, I was able to make it out of the bar as they tried to get me to sit back down.

I quickly headed back to the hostel. Noticing that someone seemed to be on the same path home as myself as soon as I left the bar, I took off running hearing Jenny yelling, “Run Forrest, Run!” as I went through the town, past the abandon buildings and up the dark blackened hills. Remembering how much I hated running, I was gasping for air as I dropped down into a chair after arriving at the hostel. Blood rushing through my fatty veins, I have no desire to run up a hill ever again…but knowing that this will not be the last hill I run up or the last person I run away from.