I begin this essay with the observation that I’ve never known a rooster to crow exclusively at sunrise. At least three confused cocks interrupted my sleep with what can best be compared to “The Midnight Howl” from the movie 101 Dalmatians. Gallo Frito (fried rooster) is my dish of choice should I decide to hold them accountable.
Eight months of planning afforded this compulsive worrier plenty of time to prepare for the horrors of our descent into the heart of darkness. My Third World checklist resulted from ruminations of car-jackings, robberies, machete assaults, pick-pocketing, volcanoes, earthquakes, cliff-falls and other random surprises over which I have no control. That left me to focus on exchange rates, parasites and a variety of possible rashes. And, yes, I know that it’s never the things you expect or prepare for that deliver your undoing.
My packing list became quite specific. If I can catch jock-itch and athlete’s foot at a health club two blocks from my home, then the devilish Tinea twins can easily stage a third world Cincoanera in my nether regions without an ample supply of Tinactin and Lotrimin. Check.
Hydrocortisone seems an appropriate addition for a variety of potential skin eruptions, not the least of which might be the result of exotic plant scratches and insect stings. And speaking of eruptions, I think it only logical when surrounded by volcanoes and water borne parasites to have a well considered, shall we say, exit strategy.
Seriously, the metaphor of magma exiting my body, jet propelled by an assortment of unaccustomed foods, laced with picante, pico de gallo and hot peppers is a short stretch given my propensity to suffer digestively in travels to my only previous Third World destinations like Round Lake Beach and Peoria. Compounding this is a lifetime aversion to objects falling from my body that harkens back to my toilet training resistance as a child, continuing into middle age with a diet high in beef and output that more closely resembles an Arabian foal. Wet wipes and lidocaine cream applied as needed. Check.
All of this brings me to our painful ride on Lake Attitlan, a water filled collapsed caldera between three volcanoes, in a rustic flat bottom boat not meant for even light chop. Halfway through the slamming ordeal, tossed like our luggage and seat cushions I shouted “No mas testiculares” in a plea for mercy on my gonads and an attempt to sound Spanish. I fully expected to be hurled from a volcanic vent on a Mayan altar like James Mason and Pat Boone after their Journey to the Center of the Earth, but had no such luck. Where is Arne Saknussemm when you need him?
Respectfully submitted should the mosquito bite I suffered on the last day of the trip result in Dengue Fever or something equally awful and untreatable.
But of course it didn’t. Like most vacations, it was extremely enjoyable and utterly amazing – in hindsight.
😎
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