It's a Poop Party!!

After volunteering all day shoveling mud, I went dancing at a bar in Antigua, Guatemala. The music was loud so I had to yell.
"Hey, you want to get your poop tested tomorrow?!!!"
"That sounds like fun!!!"
Yes it does.
But my friends immediately pulled her aside as I watched her then promptly leave.
"Craig, she thought you asked her out for coffee."
Seems like I had some quick vocabulary questions for my Spanish teacher the next day.

"Do you want to test your poop?"
"That's correct, Gustavo."
"Look, I don't want to play games."
"Pardon."
"I said do you want to test your poop."
"Very good, that is right, Gustavo."
She was obviously scared.
"You know what I'm saying."
"Yes, of course."
"I'm asking you a question, right?"
"Yes, that's right. I understand your question."
She was toying with me. She was good. But I was persistent.
"I will ask you again."
"Okay, Gustavo."
"Do you want to test your poop?"
"Very good!"
"No, it's a question."
"Yes, that's right."
"Please stop resisting."
Things got awkward.
I should clear things up.
"Look, it's only $3 to test your poop."
The game was over. She looked defeated. She couldn't help noticing my poop testing passion.
There was a long Spanish sigh, "I suppose, Gustavo, you--"
Quickly from underneath my half completed homework, I revealed $6.
"--We...are now going to get our poop tested during class."
"High-fives!!"

In the clinic I explained the plan, "...And then, at the poop party, we're all going to play trivial games with our poop results--"
"Gustavo Cachuate Bajando?"
"Oh, that's me--it's Showtime!"



Back at the hostel, I was fielding questions for my marketing of the poop lab tour.
"Only $3!?"
"Results in thirty minutes!?"
Two hours later I was back at the poop lab with six eager poopers.





Our names were individual called. Our team was very supportive with raucous rounds of applause each time a member of team poop emerged proud and productive.
"Good on you, Alex!"
"That's way more than a gram, Adam."
"It looks cute!"
And, to be completely honest...it was cute. See, I had decided that before handing in my second nugget, I would personalize the process.


Now look here. If you want a corporate team building exercise, I tell you--poop testing. Look, I now have new friends for life. I know, even now, that someone is already planning our poop testing anniversary chat-room party. It's a social fact, once you have seen someone else's texture, you create an untouchable universal timeless bond.
"Whoa, player, don't even be looking at my results! You know the rules. No looking at the results until the poop trivia tonight."

Before we left, Victor, the poop lab tech, needed a word with me.
"Your friend Adam has parasites. He needs to see a doctor immediately."
"Sure, sure. But, Victor, isn't their something you need to tell me about my adorable sample?"
Like how you are going to use it for a bolo tie, how it's your new lab mascot, or how you're going to use it as a playful crayon...

To celebrate that Adam was dying, we decided to get impressive decorations for the poop party. I say, hello, poop piñata! Well, not quite, we had to make one. Adam was impressed with the details.
"It even has my parasite on it!"


Quickly the poop trivia started.
"Who can beat my starch score of 7?"
"My mucus score of 2 trumps!!"
"Whoa--there. Ace in the hole. I got a yeast score of 8!"


The big surprise of the night was that the winning poop was from the dog poop in front of the lab that I had submitted. Science.

"Craig...do you know why Mike just left?"
"Absolutely no idea."
"Well, he said you told him that the piñata had poop and peanuts in it."
"Listen to me carefully. You can not trust that guy."

For the rest of the night, we creeped out our hostel mates by beating the shit out of our poop piñata and congratulating ourselves for having very healthy pH levels with our poop.

The Smell of My Burning Flesh

"With a paper clip?"
In Antigua, Guatemala, I was trying to explain to, Alex, my British hostel mate why I wanted to visit the nearby volcano.
"Yeah, I've bent it into a design."
"But, why?"
"To be branded and scarred by the boiling lava of an ancient volcano. Need I say more?"


Yes, sure some daredevils visit lava to roast marshmallow or even roast chicken meat. But, I was to cook my own flesh branding myself from the bellowing heat from active lava. Concerns? Too late, as I was already in the shuttle heading to the nearby lava.

"Antigua has great examples well-preserved baroque architecture."
Our driver was blabbing about the history of Antigua when he should really be telling me at which temperature human flesh cooks.

I was rubbing my homemade paperclip brand in my pocket hoping that we timed our arrival perfectly with the lava high tide. Me and my flesh had been promised an unfordable river of lava.

Grandpa tell us about that amazingly way cool scar on your forearm.
Being fully transparent with my Grand kids, I would confess that every 10,000 years a pagan high priest of the highest Omega order is invited to have the sacred mark produced by the fire of wild lava. I was that person.

We arrived at the gates of the park for the powerful lava tour. There were no candles made from the fat of sacrificed goats. Points were deducted.

Before I pulled out my money, secretly hidden under the sole in my shoe, I interrupted the park attendant who was talking about the entrance fee, "--yeah, yeah, but where do most people fall into the lava."
"Yes there is lava today."
Though, disappointed that he didn't talk in creepy Esperanto, he did add his own touch by stroking a kitten for no real reason while he answered.

As someone in the shuttle embarrassingly asked if we could cook marshmallows, I secretly got the eye contact of the park attendant, flashed some extra money and displayed my mouth's incisors while gesturing that he should give me the kitten. We were ushered into the park.


Okay, I see the volcano and fields and fields of black smoldering black moon rock. Yes, not bad. But no powerful lava. Our tour guide was trying to get us excited about the thing that was not lava.
"Look! Black rocks!"

I had decided that our guide had exactly 6 minutes and 66 seconds to show me a blistering river of lava before I hammered my paper clip design into his tender temple with said black rock.

We came to a stop. Our guide was confused and sad.
He explained, pointing to an area of unremarkable black rock, "There was so much lava here yesterday. Now it has stopped and it is just black rock."
This just won't do. I can't burn myself here. A scar from basically a tepid mountain charcoal doesn't sound half as powerful.


I knew that our guide knew where the lava was but just wanted more money. I grabbed a piece of dull rock and let him see that I was sharpening an arrowhead the exact size of his eyeball socket.
"Oh, wait. I know where there might be some lava."
He's a smart man.

We were lead to a barbed wire fence where an old woman with a knotted wooden staff says for a small fee we may pass.
"You may pass closer to the volcano at your own risk."
I was already halfway up the mountain before she finished her theatrical warning.

I was closer to my rightful destiny. Alex, my British hostel mate, was still with me to witness the ceremony.

We were finally further from safety. I could smell the breath of Satan. I knew we were close. Our guide had turned his back to shirk responsibility of our actions.

We came to a ledge. Within 10 yards, we saw the wound of the volcano. The hole was no bigger than a large pizza. Standing there near the crater, I tried not to think about how unpredictable volcanoes are. I was not thinking about the miles of black rock that this grumpy hole produced. Though, I was wondering if the hole burped up just a small blob of lava would it instantly melt off one of my appendages. I was also imagining that I was in a Choose Your Own Adventure story.

If you choose to move closer to the hole of an active volcano that shapes mountains and valleys, turn to page Death.

If you choose to understand the calamity of your current location and stupidity and then turn back, turn to page You Live.


I was cooing the lava hole like I was approaching a timid dog, "Good, lava hole. There you go. Who's a good lava hole?"


I was now close enough to see a glowing red light. As I watched lose gravel cascade into the hole, I could see it was too deep to reach the lava to brand myself. Crap.

Then bad things happened. We'd come too close to her. The volcano wasn't happy. The ground beneath us abruptly changed in temperature. Knowing how discreet the British can be but then to hear Alex squealing behind me without reserve made me really worry about what was happening. More smoke and heat was coming up from the gravel around us. I heard more squealing. It was me. Tiny stones, like Pop Rocks candy, were bouncing against my bare and exposed legs. I could hear and smell my legs burning.


The faster we ran, the more rocks that got kicked up against us. Eventually small hot coals made their way into our prancing shoes. We manically pranced more. Tiny pieces of an active volcano were working their way down into my socks. It was like someone was taking a lighter to random parts of my feet. I was dancing, squealing and being cooked. The hot coals in my shoes weren't cooling. I was going primal with pain. I had to get the coals out from under my feet. So, without thinking, I dropped to my haunches to the searing hot ground, threw my feet up in the air and removed my shoes. This was, of course, bad idea number 387. The hot coals on the surface of the volcano were no less forgiving as they cooked what little flesh I had on the tender flanks of my rump. I was now bouncing my ass down the hot gravel to get off the volcano crater.

The volcano took pity on the two spastically dancing gringos who dared to approach her lava orifice. Humbled, we returned to the rest of our group who were kind enough to pretend that no one throughout the valley had heard us squealing.

Cops, Soldiers, Bribes, and a Ditch of Doom

I was finished filming in Trojes, Honduras. I had survived irregular electricity, work, water and sleep. In fact, the only regular constant was my regular diarrhea.

The plan was to reward my leaking self with some R&R in Guatemala.

We pulled into Guatemala city. Before taking a shuttle to the city of Antigua, I had just enough time to visit the bottomless sink hole in the city. The sink hole had instantly opened up during a recent huge tropical storm.

I hailed a taxi.
"Can you take me to the sink hole?" Which, by the way, sounds like a great name for a new Guatemalan strip club.
"Yes, no problem, my friend."

During the taxi ride, I struck up some small talk, "Dude, in your life, how many dead bodies have you seen?"

I know we were near the sink hole because my new favorite taxi drive, with increasing speed, drove right under the clearly marked police caution tape. Please, please tell me we are going to try and jump over the massive sink hole.

I whispered, "big tip," in his fleshy ear as he removed both hands from the steering wheel to light another incense stick using two exposed electrical copper wires from under the dash.

We slalomed through an obstacle course of traffic cones that were incidentally directing us closer to the sink hole. My driver kept turning completely around to wink his gold tooth at me. If he was foolishly waiting for me to tell him to stop, then death was guaranteed. It was clear that we both suffer from danger blindness. His wedding ring seemed fake as I couldn't tell if the cold damp air I smelt was from the sink hole or from our impending doom.

With our current velocity, soldiers with no option waved us through. For no reason, I cinched my belt. But, my big dream of doom was dashed as we were confronted with a small crude stone wall that had been built across the road. Before the car came to anywhere near a complete stop, I was already out of the car and sliding my uninsured belly under a metal fence to get closer to the sink hole.

And there she was. A huge, cold and treacherous hole as big as a city block with no visible bottom. I inched forward on unstable ground pretending to be confused by some overly-cautious soldier's furious hand gestures. I entertained myself by taking pictures of my taxi driver who was behind me as I walked backwards towards the vertical Chunnel. This, of course, sent the soldier into a frenzy. I heard the click of a safety being released on a large weapon. I could see my taxi driver mouthing the words, Yes, my friend, closer, yes.

I turned back to the sink hole to see double the amount of soldiers all mouthing the words, No, what are you doing, you danger-blind, dumbtard?

I tried to distract the local soldiers in the only effective way possible in a Latin American country.
"Yes, hey there! Who do you want to win the World Cup this year?"
Trigger fingers slacked as the captain of the squad frustratingly watched his crack team of now-disarmed soldiers instantly start to argue among themselves.
"Argentina!"
"Espana!"
"Mexico!"
"Germany!"
I nudged closer to stupidity as the captain tried to restore order while also trying to determine which dishonorable soldier dared to hope that a non-Latin American country could win the sacred World Cup.

The soldiers were still confused about which law trumps in this situation, continue to passionately talk about the World Cup or to do their job.

As I was still counting the echos bouncing around in the sink hole from my original question, I stepped closer to my own very deep grave. I glanced back to my taxi driver who was encouraging me forward with one hand while collecting bets with his other hand.

An official agreement had been reached. Soldiers could continue to whisper to themselves their favorite World Cup team if they pointed their loaded guns at the absent-of-logic lobe in my skull. In my shoes, I outreached my toes to try and get just that much closer to the edge.

From the sink hole came a vapid cold existential wind that clearly stated the name Grandma Melba. And the sink hole was correct. If I jeopardized my life at this point, I would not be alive to return to the United States to make fun of my Grandma Melba.

I dangled my foot over the sink hole effectively casting a shadow somewhere in Mongolia. The entire World-Cup-whispering soldier choir looked at their leader for how to handle the situation. My taxi driver nodded indicating he was satisfied with our earnings. I was free to retreat.

"Do you think we can get on top of that house there?"
My taxi driver looked at the house hanging over the sink hole, calculated the new betting odds and then walked us over to the cops on the opposite side of the hole from the soldiers.
I prepped myself. Craig, deliver this with equal part American confidence and arrogance. Think posture.

"Hello. I am the press correspondence for Agua Claro Para Feliz."
Strategically from my shirt-breast pocket, I whipped out my Agua Claro work badge.
Craig, focus on looking like a photographer who has seen things...things that you can't talk about. Now hold that look.


And, yes! We now had a police escort and permission to get on the roof of a house hanging over the edge of a sink hole. Watching our police escort, the soldiers on the other side of the sink hole were utterly confused but quickly returned to arguing over who they thought the sink hole would root for in the World Cup.

The police chief was honored to be escorting international press. A door was knocked on, a head emerged, a cop's hand was rested on a pistol, and we were cheerfully invited in. The cooperative owner pointed us across the roof of two other houses. This path would lead us to the roof of the house that was acting like a plank hanging over the sink hole.

As we cat burglared over a rickety roof, my taxi driver, worrying about the bet, cautioned, "Be careful!"
I was amused.

We reached the precarious vantage point. I was not convinced that I couldn't feel the house teetering on the sink hole's edge. I was amused when the police chief gave me a boost to climb even higher up on the roof. They declined to follow me. Logic and dirt was crumbling away as I moved closer so I could hang my camera over the sink hole.

From what I could see, it was clear that if I fell in, I would starve to death before I died from impacting the theoretical bottom of the sink hole.

I was happy with my brush with death. So, we headed back down.
I pulled my taxi escort aside, "How much should I give our cooperative police chief?"
Not wanting to cut into our betting profits, "Nada...just water--a small bottle."

Knowing that my taxi driver and I shared the sacred personality characteristics of being cheap and possessing an illogical disregard for danger made our departing handshake feel that much more timeless.

On Being Asked to Leave the Country

In my farm penthouse, deep in the jungles of Honduras, the electricity was still out but now I had water. Well, more like fast moving mud dripping from the faucets. I asked Lupi, my landlord, about the mudslide oozing from the pipes but Lupi had a plan.
¨Gustavo, the water would be cleaner with one of the filters you install with Agua Claro.¨

Lupi was back to playing hardball. I was sure that in her part of the house she was soaking herself with a perfect mixture of medical grade saline solution and imported Fiji artisan water.

"Lupi, it's not safe for me to wash my dishes with this filthy water."
"Sure it is, Gustavo. First you just use the dirty water from the tap, then rinse your dishes with bottled water from the store."
"With this logic, Lupi, I could easily just wash my dishes with my own dehydrated brown-syrup urine as long as I then rinsed my dishes with bottled water."

The truth was that I had been having some personal Oprah time with myself about what I needed to do. And, after digging ditches for 70 hours a week, I discovered that I actually didn´t like digging ditches for 70 hours a week. I set up some time with my immediate boss in Trojes.
"Gerson, I wanted to talk about the documentary that I am here to make."

My regional coordinators were coming to visit in a week. We agreed to start and finish the film before they arrived. The only break I took during the manic filming was when I explained to my local team that I have three nipples.
"Really, all Gringos have three nipples?"
"Yes, but best not to touch mine."


While filming, I enjoyed the easy task of getting perfect audio for an interview on a farm with constant sounds from ducks, donkeys, cows, cats, roosters, dogs, pigs being slaughtered, and finally my diarrhea belly.

When interviewing the regional doctor, I wasn't surprised when after finally setting up the movie lights, we were cast into complete darkness in her office after the town electricity went out. The doctor and I played games as we waited for the lights to come back on.
"Marco?"
"Polo!"

As I was filming all day and editing all night, I decided to move my bed to our office to increase my efficiency.


We finished the video in time to show it to the visiting Agua Claro team as they arrived in our tiny dirt town eight hours from civilization.

"Oscar, are you humming the theme song to The A-Team?" I inquired.
Understanding how isolating Trojes was, he proudly confirmed, "Why, yes, I am, Gustavo."
"Oh, Oscar, you are a cruel, cruel man. I hope you don´t find a hair in your meal--like ever."
"I also had two Wendy´s Frosties before I left the capital city today."
I don´t think he knew how close I came to pouncing on him to hum the Airwolf theme song while I sniffed his finger tips for the sweet, sweet smell of recent Wi-Fi use.

As a gift to my coworker Fredy for being such a sport while filming, I gave him a free photo shoot of him on his motorcycle.


If you find yourself in Trojes, Honduras, consider yourself pregnant.

Anyway, Fredy and I had so much fun that I decided I wanted a photo shoot too. So, with a stroke of pure genius, I had my photo shoot at the nasty dengue and vulture infested landfill thinking the relative location would make me look much more attractive.


The next day after reviewing our video, the Agua Claro team and I had a quick conference. I started the meeting with a lucrative NGO fund-generating idea.
"See, we have these hot-ass girls on an Agua Claro calendar. No, wait! They could be topless, see, as they hold cups of water over their pink parts. They could be, you know, totally panting with thirst. And, get this, the tag line would be Don´t these girls deserve to drink sanitary water? They could be the...let's see, yes, the Agua Claro Thirsty Girls!"
They promptly finished the meeting with, "Craig, we liked the video. How do you feel about going to Haiti?"

Incontinence Happens

After a long day of digging ditches in Trojes, Honduras, I awoke the next day from a dream where I had named my future kid Carpe Suburbia thinking it sounded top shelf.

Groggy, I stepped out from my bedroom and greeted Lupi, my landlord, with our now regular daily salutation, "Is there water today?"
"No, no water today, Gustavo."

Lupi then got bold, "So, you install filters with Agua Claro, right?"
"Ironically..."
"You know, we need a filter here."
"Oh, like an air filter?" I was entertaining myself.
She let it sink in that she thought I was a complete idiot before looking both ways and then confiding, "No...like a water filter. You know, like the ones you install everyday."
"Ah, the cows would like that."
Huddling up, "No, for us, Gustavo..."

Wait for it. Simmer that dramatic pause, Craig. And...yes...a little longer--now, now, now, deliver!

"Lupi don´t we need to have water first before we have a water filter?"
She was befuddled.
I was late for work.

I arrived in the work office and we all exchanged greetings.
"Gustavo is there water in your house?"
"No, no water today."

We then got down to business.
"Gustavo do you see that man in the green shirt? Wait! Don´t look at him!"
"Like directly in his eyes?" I questioned.
"No. Like don´t look at him at all."
"Oh."
"He´s been sent by the town´s conservative mayor."
"Oh, to help us work?"
"No. He told us to not work today or their might be trouble."
I immediately stopped watering my cows on my facebook farm and promptly typed a message in a CIA secure email form explaining that there was dramatic tension in this hotbed political region of Trojes. I can provide names.

My coworkers had a less logical reaction, "We are going wait it out here for a while."
I decided to celebrate my patriotic act by getting breakfast.
"No, Gustavo...it is safer here in the office."

I left the office and greeted the leader of the one person picket line, "Is there water in your house?"
He went for his pocket.
I kept walking.

Breakfast in Trojes was always a simple affair. Did I want beans and rice...or rice and beans? Well, today was a pleasant surprise. Seems like I had been patronizing the restaurant long enough that I got the upgrade option: Beans, rice and a long ass hair. This hair was so long it snaked itself through every possible bite of my meal. It seriously could have been used for a suspension foot bridge.


"Gustavo how was your meal?"
"Great except I found a huge hair in my meal."
The office cheered, "That's good luck!!"
I decided to immediately test this curious logic, "Oh, and...I also found blood in my stool today."
The cheering ceased and a consensus of concern was expressed by my not sarcastic coworkers.
"Whatever...it´s good luck back home." I explained.

Later we decided that my streak of good fortune, the combination of my good luck hair and lucky stool blood, still wasn´t quite enough protection to risk working this morning with an armed man pacing in front of our work truck. We arranged to regroup that afternoon.

I returned to my farm to try and figure out what was going on with my evasive water. It took me two minutes of walking around the back of the farm house to discover the problem. My house was suffering from incontinence.

In respect to the sensitivity of the subject, I pulled my landlord aside and discreetly mentioned, in Spanish, that the house had peed its pants. For some reason, she was confused. So, I had to show her.
"I´ll bring in a plumbing expert." She announced.
I couldn´t wait.

Fredy called and said he was coming over to pick me up for work.
"Fredy is it safe to work right now?"
"See you in 10 minutes."

Normally, Fredy and I work with coffee farmers. So, all day we are served and wash back coffee like it´s contraband. Which is no biggie for although we push the legal blood caffeine level limit, the coffee energizes us to work harder.

Later we returned home fully caffeinated with humming bird heart rates, chatting away, sometimes even chatting away with each other, grinding are teeth and trying not to be too regular as I was proudly yelling phrases in the future verb tense to passing pedestrians.

"Help me! I´m going to vomit!"

When I arrived back at my farm, I was excited to see that Lupi had already called the plumbing expert--her college daughter. Laying around them, they had more tubes than a bad ass hamster fort.

After a while, they ran out of ideas of how to fix the water problem. I thought I´d take the opportunity to inspire them back into action with some PVC didgeridoo serenades.

The contractor and her plumbing expert sprung back into action and fixed the solution. I then had water. I was very excited about having water as I don´t think I´d honestly showered since I flew out of the Houston airport 2 months prior.

Lupi and her daughter didn´t stick around for hugs or the shower celebration. So, I rolled off my greasy clothes and bounced into the shower alone. In complete darkness, I was, of course, overwhelmed with amusement when I turned on the long awaited water and the house electricity immediately went out.

I Said, 'Show Me Your Teeth!!!'

So, it seems that people in Trojes have a problem getting access to safe drinking water.

“Lupi, there’s no water in my house!” I politely yelled to the landlord of my farm.
“Oh, sorry. We had to wash the cows.”

First off, I’ve never heard of anyone washing cows that basically stand in around in their own shit all day. So, I immediately called a house meeting to discuss the hierarchy of evolution and to threatened to have my landlord smell my ‘don’t scratch and sniff' salty perineum that was growing a stalactite due to the infrequency of my bathing.

She got my discreet point and promised to refill my water tank above my room. I was off to a hard day of work, which might include the following games.

Ignoring Treachery,


Truck Surfing,

Albino vs. Latino on the Ledge of Doom,


and playing with cute turtles.

Generally, when we work we construct latrines and install water filters. My back has requested that I do not go into the details involving digging 8-foot deep latrine ditches or carrying 250-pound cement filters through the jungle.

I can tell you that after using the old style latrines I can understand why we have a waiting list for our new latrines. The old latrines are a stinky hole in the ground. They basically look like the farm has its own asshole that’s right there between your feet.

Hello, innocent stinky shit well. I’m going to drain my dehydrated bladder in you. Yep.

Easy enough. But, what every single person failed to inform this innocent first worlder was that open latrines seem to make great homes for wasps.

Oh, hello. What have we here?

Mid-stream, I was nervously watching a cyclone of black pissed on and pissed off wasps making a beeline for my tender and exposed parts. I was latched into a latrine, my romantic parts are vulnerable and there are more wasps than I have bug bites. I thoroughly soaked that old latrine with urine as I spun around trying to defend myself.

I decided I’d stay away from the latrines and stick to lying to kids. For example, I have a real soft spot for the look on kids' faces when I explain to them that on their birthday our filters will produce an ice cream topped with a brand new soccer ball personally filled with Messi’s own Argentinian breath. But, it’s not the look on their face as they want to believe that it's true. NO, no, no...it’s the little drop of drool that always forms on their lower lip.


I should also confess that at the time I hadn’t yet learned the word for smile. So, instead, I’d ask the kids to show me their teeth. Not the best solution but look how happy these kids are going to look on our Agua Claro Para Feliz informational brochure.






In general, I’ve been working out here for about three weeks now. It’s funny how you start to take on your surroundings. For example, look closely to the right in the picture below and you’ll be surprised to see that it is actually me.



Look, just trust me--it's me. You can tell by my badunkadunk calf muscles.

Anyway, after a hard day of lying to kids, I was looking forward to a hearty meal in my house. I arrived to hear the good news.
“Gustavo, we replaced the water in your tank!”
This was of course some of that world-famous Honduran sarcasm as there was no water in my house. So, I enjoyed some dry crunchy ramen noodles with the plan of using the empty styrofoam cup as part of my new rain collection system.

Fruit of My Loins and I Don't Think I Am a Baby Smuggler

Before work, I just happened to peek in my manties to discover a protective spider and a sac of spider eggs. I wondered how long I had been brooding this little family. My fertility device was grateful that I adverted this genital disaster.


Later that day, I was taking more photos of one of our orientations in a remote community. My team was talking in Spanish about hygiene. So, yeah, neither the Spanish nor the subject of hygiene made any sense to me. Though I did notice when my boss mentioned my name at the end of the presentation.

I waved and greeted the community, “Yep, I’m Gustavo. Hey, folks.”

That’s weird. It looks like you want me to come up front.

I pretended to keep taking pictures.

And there it is again. That signal that you want me to come and talk in front of this group of farmers that pull out their own teeth for dice. Really, is this necessary to use me as an example of how not to be hygienic?

I was introduced again, “Yes, a few words from our volunteer…”
That’s funny, see, no joke, I actually only know a few words in Spanish. What the hell do you want me to say about hygiene?

“Okay, um, look…it’s best to cook with clean water. For example, ah, oh right, once I ate some dirty Chinese food in Nicaragua…”
The farmers confirmed, “Chinese Food in Nicaragua!”
Then the hee-hawing started.

Oh, they loved this. It was like I had missed out on a local colloquial cliché that everyone was using. For example, one could say, that movie was totally Chinese food in Nicaragua.

Oh, wait--duh. Obviously, the adventures of my blog had already spread to these rural UNICEF subsidized communities.

My story of how the tainted Chinese food caused me to produce more vomit than I actually weighed seemed to bring the community together. I watched feuding farmers slapping each other's knees listening to my story while they finished their enemy’s sentence with glee.
“He ate Chinese Food—“
“—in Nicaragua! I know! I know!”

I ignored the chuckling commotion and went on…

“So, like I was saying, clean water is way important and we like sell subsidized filters that totally aren’t Chinese food in Nicaragua.”

“Good work, Gustavo.”
With that, we jumped into the work truck to head home.



Of course, on the way back, the ocean fell from the sky. We had questionable visibility, steep inclines that made your ears pop, and cliffs on either side of a sloppy clay road where if we lost control I’d fall back into Nicaragua.

But, regardless of the conditions, the music in the truck was always sacred. Because Freddy the driver was busy text messaging, I was obviously in charge of the music. And, to be fair, DJ Caucasian would alternate MP3 players. It was an international musical exchange program between Freddy’s Amor Muzak and my cultural presentation of the The Locusts.

The really exciting part was the copper wire Freddy had fashioned to connect an MP3 player to the car radio. The cord almost worked. You had to hold the wire in just the right way. 98% percent of the time I was composing Sonic Youth ballads with the loud short in the copper cord. But, there were these rare moments where through the buzz, hiss and static of the bad cord, we heard real music.

It was glorious. I’d never heard jams from a single left speaker with a cardboard woofer sound so good. At the exact moment when I wiggled the wire in just the right way seducing music to play, I would go catatonic and actualize all that I once read about biofeedback to try and hold the sweet little copper wire in place.

Whenever music came out of the paper towel tube speaker, we were transformed. We’d forget the dangers surrounding us, all my bug bites would stop itching, and Freddy would actually stop texting to beam a smile as he drove just a little faster.

With the elevating changing bumps in the road, I was a human gyroscope keeping the precious copper wire in place. Freddy and I would both start belly-yelling the lyrics regardless if it were Freddy’s Latin passion beats or my favorite Lightning Bolt song.
“Yar, yar, yar, racka, racka, kah!!”
“Cemento, cemento…amorlolo, te, vida me donde suenos!!!”
Neither of us were singing the correct lyrics and neither of us cared.


Driving over truck-warranty-invalidating bumps, I was ignoring my horribly itching eye. I was hesitant to scratch my itchy eye lest I jam a digit in the logical node of my brain. While pondering my options, the rosemary hanging from the rear-view mirror, manically kept whipping my other functioning eye. Still, overall I was quite proud of how effective I was balancing death and zen while keeping the sacred cooper wire steady. What could possible make this challenge any harder?

Of course, at this moment the truck then pulled over. Freddy rolled down his window. The truck immediately filled up with 3-inches of rainwater as Freddy, without a word, handed me a sleeping baby.

Freddy put the truck back in gear and I understood that I had just been upgraded to a new level in this 3rd world amazing race challenge. Though, that’s where my understanding of what was going on stopped. Freddy and I both obviously knew what was more important between this stowaway baby and our theme song jams. But, before we got pulled over, I had some questions about the newest and weakest link in our karaoke trio.

Was this baby a gift?
Did Freddy visit this community 9 months ago?
Were we baby smuggling?

Though I have to admit, it was a relief to finally meet some who I spoke more Spanish than.

I was trying to figure out how I would explain to the farm help kids that this baby was not dinner, when we finally arrived back in Trojes. The truck window was rolled down and Freddy handed my baby away.

Confidently, I nodded back to Freddy as if I knew exactly what had just happened.