reader beware

Yep this is going to be one of those posts that I’m not sure why I’m writing it. However, without a doubt a handful of you will find it highly entertaining and very apropos of whom I am/used to be back home. If frank and honest talk about the wonderful world of digestive problems and a freak accident resulting in some intense pain to a certain sensitive area of the male anatomy offend you I suggest you stop reading now and wait for my “the beach was glorious and amazing” post which I hope to throw together tomorrow. But seriously stop here if you're easily offended by less than genteel and proper decorum. You have been warned.

So what would possess me to retell a tale that requires the above disclaimer? Perhaps my recent reading of Kevin Smith’s My Boring Ass Life has inspired my vulgar side. Perhaps the solitude and lack of English communication is splintering my psyche. Or maybe, just maybe, my closest friends will find this email hysterically funny and that is good enough for me. Ideally it will appeal to the majority of my gracious readers. And now the misadventures…

One of the constants in my life, and any of my friends and many of my co-workers will attest, is my unique dietary proclivities. I wouldn’t call myself picky, nor would I call myself a dullard. The reason for my peculiar eating habits is twofold. One, many textures trigger a fairly sensitive gag reflex. Two, the majority of my non-standard meals (and even many of those) stay with me for only a few minutes. We’ve all had those experiences. Running stop signs, sweat flowing through every pore on your body, the all important clench of the muscles saving you from public humiliation and embarrassment in a mad panic to reach the solitude of your own commode (with the reassurance of a shower nearby just in case it gets really out of hand.) Let’s just say that I’ve had more than my fair share of such experiences. I can’t even begin to count the number of times my body decided when it was ready to purge without the slightest concern for what my mind was thinking. Prior to my trip it was a constant conversation. What am I going to eat? How would I survive with my slight phobia of public restrooms? What am I going to do when the situation arises and there is nowhere to evacuate? (have I run out of euphemisms yet?) For all those who have seen me leave a restaurant while dumping cash on the table and running out early the topic was truly a source of amusement. Yet I find myself 7+ weeks into my Latin American journey and only one incident so far. It unfolded a bit like this.

About 3 weeks ago, after a long day of driving due to a mudslide and a washed out bridge, I pulled into Monteverde, CR. A nice town in the hills NW of San Jose. I had a tasty chicken and black bean quesadilla at the Rainforest or Paradise Café. I forget. Apparently I dined during a shift change because I asked for my check and 40 mins later I was still waiting for it. I left some money on the table to cover meal and tip and set out for my campsite a few hours away. The winding road, not too dissimilar to Farmington Canyon, UT but narrower descended 3k washboard ridden feet of glorious panoramas and coffee farms. About 30 mins outside of Monteverde that familiar feeling kicked in. I played the ‘my mind is more powerful than my body so I can prevent this from happening’ game for about 20 more mins as the pressure, stomach pain and sweat only intensified. The real fear is that my only real option was the side of the road. Tucked into a 60 degree slope the road didn’t offer many turn outs or places to hide. As the sun began to set, as the risk of dengue and malaria are both present I spotted a corner of a fence and little foot trail. TP and babywipes already in hand I slammed the truck into P and sped off into the trees. Just as I squat down I see a Chow of all things (seriously what the hell is a chow doing in the Costa Rican jungle?) trotting down the trail toward me. I’ve had some experience with pissed off chows during my years in Alaska. Those things can be mean. So I picked up a rock and backed my extremely puckered ass down the trail. On the other side of the road I spotted a tree with just enough roots holding up the hillside for a man to stand, or squat, on the edge of the 800 foot canyon. A quick sprint to the tree, check around for spectators and the body was instantly cleansing itself of the, what I have to assume, was undercooked chicken. And it was a doosey. The kind that leaves you shaking afterwards from the trauma. I cleaned up, built a fire with the paper and turned to head to the car. Within a second of me coming around the tree, two farmers emerge from the opposite trail with the chow and another mutt. I say hello, they spot the tp in my hand and laugh a little bit. I smiled and climbed in the truck laughing at the how much differently that exchange would have unfolded if they had arrived 90 seconds earlier during my purgation. So there you go Adam, Maddog, Hardy, Ryan, Hampton, Racker, Beef, JC, Paul, Cory, Jason, Mr. Helm, Bush, Farnes (who saw me suffer a similar but far more mosquito ridden affair along the Alaska Hwy) and everyone else who has often laughed at my panic and discomfiture over the years. Once in 2 months ain’t too bad considering Pace’s or Lorena’s will do it to me every single time.

While on the topic of extremely embarrassing situations how about another one from the road? I think that sounds like a resounding ‘yes’ from the one reader who has made it this far. With that vote of confidence here is round two of ‘dave is being way too honest about stuff we don’t want to know.’ For those who jumped on the Expedition Americas bandwagon early you are familiar with boxes I built for hauling all my crap. For those who missed it you can find it here. The amazing $10 hotel I mentioned in my last post lacked something else besides cleanliness and that would be secure parking. So I pulled my truck in as close to a corner as I could and began securing items in the locked boxes. Having come from the beach I was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of Gramicci quick-dry shorts. They are basically the thinnest material you can wear. Yep, how was that for a non-sequitur? But that bit of detail is important. I needed to climb across the boxes to grab my pillow from the rear passenger side of the car. Unbeknownst to me the lid on which I was lying wasn’t fully closed, until my fat ass threw his gut across it. At which time it slammed closed. No big deal really except the tip of a certain part of my body was in the way. Actually pinched in between would be a better description. The only protection being said quick-dry shorts . The pain was unreal. Searing, piercing pain, like I was being cut with a knife. It took about 10 seconds for me to get the courage to look down at what I assumed was the pool of blood forming in my shorts. Those 10 seconds were filled with traumatic thoughts of driving to the town of Jaco 8 miles away while my unintentional bloodletting sent me into shock. Of course once I arrived at the free clinic there would a line of Tico’s ready to laugh and point since they knew all I had ahead of me was stitches from a set of rusty forceps and a band aid. Well all those thoughts were wiped away with the relief I felt when I saw there was no blood. Once in my room I dropped the shorts and watched in total amazement (despite the continuing pain) as a blood blister formed right on the part that Ali G like to refer to as 'the bell-end' which looked eerily similar to a Dot. (I hope that doesn’t ruin your next trip to the Megaplex.) Then, even more astonishing, the cherry Dot evolved before my eyes into a grape Dot, and eventually black licorice. Please, no emails about how there is no such thing as black licorice, that true licorice is black and only other flavors need to be qualified. I’ve never understood licorice purists who like to point out the error in the name ‘black licorice.’ I wonder how they would feel if they knew I really called it ‘tastes like ass licorice’ since I loathe the stuff. Digression aside the blood blister has now been absorbed into what I can only call a tie dyed array of blacks, blues, reds and purples. The pain is gone but a slight amount of swelling remains. Which for a guy built like me isn’t necessarily a bad thing. And on that note. I hope I didn’t lose any readers tonight and ideally you all gained a little more understanding of how honesty might not always be the best policy.

dmc